Speak

OCTOBER-2

The trip home was nerve-racking. While he was happy enough to be near me, the little dog had never been in a car. He leaped from one side of the front seat to the other, panting, emitting a high-pitched whine, sometimes bouncing off me. We almost ran off the road when he crawled between my feet. I caught his tail when I stomped on the brake and pulled over. He protested when I put him in the back seat to keep us from winding up on a slab somewhere while my (hopefully tearful) parents looked on, pondering the question Where did she get the dog?

I was too busy avoiding a wreck to regret my impulsiveness. Or to wonder how I’d handle my father when he discovered the dog.

The guard at the front gate saw me approaching and opened it with a wave. Despite the awkwardness, living in my parents' basement has its perks. Blackstone Estates has great security, the guards speak to me by name, the neighbors don't, and I never have to worry about being mugged while walking to my car.

We wound through the neighborhood of towering homes and three-car garages, taking two lefts and a right into my parents' long, brick-lined driveway, following it around behind the house. It was dark outside when I unlocked the door to my apartment, formerly known as the maid's quarters.

Within an hour of being home, I realized I had no idea what to do with a dog. I fed him what I had in my fridge—a can of mushroom soup and meatloaf. Afterward, he wrecked my carpet. I cleaned it up and prayed the carpet shampooers my mother hires every six months would be able to remove the stain.

As enamored as I was with this furry little creature, I couldn't take the smell any longer and decided to bathe him.

The minute the water struck his body, he wailed like a tornado siren and didn’t stop, no matter how many times I reassured him I wasn't drowning him. The door at the top of the stairs slammed into the wall, and I winced. That's when I remembered how many times I asked for a dog of my own after Oma and Nicholas passed away, and how he'd said, "Animals are dirty, an unnecessary expense, and you're not responsible enough to have one."

Each step vibrated under the clump of my father's large feet. This would get worse before it got better.

I'd just washed the shampoo out of the dog's coat and had the towel in my hand when my father jerked the door open without knocking.

As is typical of Dad, he has a way of filling a room up when he enters. It's not just his six foot, two hundred and seventy-pound bulk; it's how he gives the surrounding space a sweeping, take-no-prisoners glare, and uses his voice to remind everyone he owned all he beholds, even when he doesn't.

I didn't need to turn around to see his red-faced fury. My father has no half-speed.

When he leaned around me to see what I was wrestling with in the sink, he bellowed. "What the hell is that animal doing in here?"

I'd have to play my hand carefully. With my back still to the room, I wrapped the dog in a towel and lifted him. He quieted the second I put my arms around him. I peered over my shoulder.

Dad's round face, framed by close-cropped, barely-there gray hair, had gone from red to purple.

I remained silent.

"Goddamn it, Ellen, answer me."

I toweled the dog dry, acting as though I had all day. "Hold on," I told my father. "Just a minute," and "Wait," while forming an elaborate lie, as is my habit with Dad. By the time I turned around, I'd formed a story. I was ready to tell him, "He's not mine. I'm keeping him for a friend who's out of town for a month." That was a poorly constructed lie, but I was improvising. I've been lying to my father for so many years; you'd think I'd be better at it.

The dog shifted in my arms, turning his head to study my father. Maybe he sensed he too needed to practice diplomacy. Or he'd finally exhausted himself. Or he realized the towel was warm.

I opened my mouth to recite my lie, the words waiting just at the back of my throat in my epiglottis where good words should always be waiting. But the dog got in the way. With his muzzle pressed against my chest, he sighed.

"I'll pay a pet deposit."

"As I recall, you don't have any money, which is why you're still living under my roof and can't afford to fix your car."

"Just name your price, Dad. I'll come up with it."

"Fine. I want five-thousand dollars."

"Holy s**t. What do you think he'll do? Burn the place down?"

He looked triumphant. "Five thousand or he goes. Now. Tonight."

My emergency credit card. Which I only have because my mother insisted I needed it You need to be prepared for the unexpected. What if your car breaks down in a strange town somewhere? After it arrived, I threw it in a drawer and forgot about it, because I never go anywhere.

Unexpected dogs count as emergencies, don't they?

"I can give you a thousand right now."

"Five-thousand."

I was so angry I was shaking. I don't have five-thousand dollars. That's why he chose the amount. And he didn't care if the dog made me happy. All he cared about was getting his way. If he hadn't looked so damned triumphant, he might have won the war of wills.

"Fifteen hundred." The thousand-dollar limit was supposed to keep me out of trouble. Clearly, it was a flawed plan.

Where am I going to come up with another five hundred?

But there's something narcotic about the smell of a damp, grateful small dog. It goes to your head, convincing you that you can do the impossible.

"Five thousand."

"Dad, I'm offering you every penny I have available so I can keep a ten-pound dog. Aren't you in the least bit interested in knowing why?"

"I'm interested in getting that animal out of my house." If it was possible for a human to swell with the belief in an impending victory, he did.

My fury increased fourfold. Being angry with my father was a normal state of existence. But this was a new level and with it came a sort of foolish euphoria. I was willing to do anything to keep this dog. Including risking homelessness. For one wild moment, I was prepared to take the thousand dollars from the credit card and move into a fleabag motel room until further notice

But once again, my mouth got the better of my common sense. I drew on a lie I only rely on when my back is against the wall. Like the time I wanted to go on a school trip instead of spending the holidays with my family.

"Do you remember what yesterday was, Dad?"

His face changed several times, but you had to have grown up with him to see the shifts in expression. He racked his brain, trying to decide if he'd missed something important. "No."

"It was my birthday."

I watched his face as he processed this. He can't remember from year to year when my birthday is. In and of itself, this doesn’t make him feel guilty. But if he reveals to my mother he can't remember when it is, she will make sure he does. It's her superpower. He'll do anything to avoid that.

"I want this little dog for my birthday. Nothing else."

He stood there for a long second, his jaw clenching and unclenching, his color from red to purple, his lips opening and closing silently, like he was suddenly unable to breathe air. At last, his mouth snapped shut and he stormed back the way he came. His final order reverberated down the stairwell. "I want five hundred on my desk in the morning, Ellen."

The door slammed behind him. It vibrated in its frame with decreasing intensity as my father's take-no-prisoners and shoot the wounded footsteps receded.

Five hundred was a lot less than five thousand. In fact, it was less than the thousand I'd offered.

Did I just win? I don't have anything to compare this to, so I don't know. But it seemed like one of those victory-dance moments I'd heard so much about.

I fixated on the knob, thinking about the ease with which he'd entered. Why do I allow him to do that? I'm not a child anymore. And I pay rent. Not much rent, but I pay on time every month.

Tenants have rights.

Winners have rights.

I have rights.

With the dog still in my arms, I locked the door. He and I were now in open rebellion against the Empire. I looked at my dog. His tail wagged.

"Happy birthday to us, I guess." I stroked his head, and the tail sped up. For the first time, his little pink tongue swept the side of my face.