*Fast Dogs* Part III

"Are you praying for them to come home, Daddy?" Middle Child asked my husband at dinner that night. He glared at her. She twisted in her chair to face me.
            "Are you praying for the dogs to come back, Mommy?"
            I didn't look up from my pork chop. "Sort of."

            All three kids gawked at me. "Sort of?”  
            “What kind of answer is 'sort of''?" Middle Child said.
            I took my time answering. "You know how God knows everything?"
            The kids nodded.
            "Well, I reckon he knows part of me is worn out. Worn down. Doesn't necessarily wanna keep doing this forever. If I pray for them to come back, it's kinda like a lie, so why bother?"
            Middle Child's eyes were shiny, her voice all quivery. "You really don't want 'em to come back?"
            A tear dropped off one of her tarantula leg eyelashes.

            "How can you say that? What if they get hit by a car? What if they get picked up by some weirdo, freaky animal testing lab that wants to try out hair dye on 'em?"
            I huffed. "Oh, the drama of it all! I'm just being honest here! You know what I'd like? I'd love for them to be found by someone with a big ole farm where they could run all day, every day. That's what I'm thinking . . . Hoping."
            Middle Child Drama Girl slapped the table with both hands. We all jumped.
            "I've got it!" she said. She stabbed her chest with her pointer finger. "I'm going to fast!"
            My mouth fell open. My husband's too. Drama Girl nodded, her eyes wide.         
            "Fasting is what people did in the Bible when they really wanted to get God's attention, so that's what I'm gonna do."
            My husband's fork clanked as it hit the glass table top. He picked it up and pointed at her with it. 

             "You, little missy, are too young and small to fast. Who knows how long they'll be gone? What if they never come back? You could starve."
            Drama Girl crossed her arms and blew air out her nose. "I'm not going to fast eating, Daddy," she said. "I'm going to fast TV. I'm not going to watch another show until the dogs come back. So there."
            That night she stayed in her room reading while the rest of us watched High School Musical on the Disney channel.
            I lay in bed that night, squinting at the ceiling. "God, you know my heart. You know I'm so tired of those long-legged, Beagle howling, slut puppies and their gosh darn running away. You are fully aware I'd only be a little sad if I never saw them again."
            I sighed before I went on. "But the kids, God . . . The kids want them to come home. For their sake, could you please bring the doggies back? Please? Amen."

After school the next day, the kids and all their neighborhood buddies combed the nearby streets and yards. They returned after an hour.
            "Any luck?" I said, as I arranged a bowl of pretzels and cups of lemonade on the kitchen table.
            They all shook their heads and looked at their laps.
            A little while later, the kids were donning their jackets to leave when one of the oldest kids peeked out the kitchen door window.
            "Hey! Hey, you guys! Little Paint's home! She's on your back porch.”
            I cracked the back door and there she was, what was left of her anyway. The once stout and strong brown dog seemed to have lost at least fifteen pounds. Her fur looked like someone had blown their nose in it. She was panting, her tongue hanging out like a strip of raw bacon. Her tail wagging made her body sway side to side.
            When I opened the screen door, she stumbled in.  As soon as she plopped down on her blanket, she was covered with almost a dozen kids—a dog pile, for real.
            "Careful," I said, wrinkling my nose. "She may have rolled in cow poo."
            They didn't care. They petted and kissed and stroked every inch of her.
            I phoned my husband at work. "You're never gonna guess what just happened."
.           "They didn't."
            "Little Paint did."
            "No way."
            "Way," I said. "Guess Drama Girl's fasting got God's attention after all."
            "Guess so," my husband said. "Wonder what happened to Daisy May?"

The next morning, I discovered Daisy on the back porch. Curled in a tight ball, nose under her tail. I drummed my fingers on the window. She looked up and blinked a couple times. Her tail started thumping. Slow at first, then faster.
            When I opened the door, she stepped in gingerly. "Did the pavement shred your paw pads?" I asked, only a little bit mean.
            I leaned over the baby gate that kept the dogs in the kitchen at night.

            "Kids!" I said, loud enough to reach the third floor. "The other prodigal pup has returned."
            The kids thundered down two flights of stairs, making the artwork on the walls tremble. They flopped on Daisy as they had sprawled on Little Paint the day before. Daisy didn't look quite as bad. I figured she was only five pounds lighter.
            Little Paint glared at the welcome home party from across the kitchen. Seemed she kind of liked being an only dog. A few minutes later though, she made her way to the blanket. She growled at Daisy for a bit before I gave her the evil eye and told her to hush.
            I poured a splash of my good olive oil into a small bowl and handed it to the kids. 
            "Rub this on their paw pads,” I said. I didn't miss the snide look little Miss Drama Girl gave me beneath her substantial lashes.

            Both dogs rolled onto their backs, their legs stiff in the air, as if to offer their paws for pampering.
            My son laid his head on Little Paint's ribcage like it was a pillow.
            "You were right, Mommy."
            "'Bout what, sweetie?"
             "They came back. Just like you said they would."
             "Yep," I said. "They always do. They're like cats, these two. They seem to have nine lives. I'm just worried one of these days their lives are gonna run out."

                                  

For Whom the Bell Curves

"Hold still!" I said to my son as I snapped a photo of him coming down the front steps. I take one every year on the first day of school. And the last. Capture his size, hairstyle, and current fashion taste forever. I have pictures of all three kids on every one of their first and last days of school. If only I scrapbooked.
             My sixteen-year-old daughter spoke from inside the screen door. 

            “He’s in sixth grade now, Mom,” she said. “That's middle school. No way can you walk him down to the corner. It wouldn't be cool.”

            I whimpered. Made my eyes big and slow-blinked. “Really?” I said. “No way?”

            She crossed her arms. Shook her head, her mouth a firm, lip-glossed line.

            I settled for standing in the middle of the street in front of our house. Watched his figure diminish in the morning mist. Another girl was already at the corner. Waiting on the bus. With her daddy. I noticed a pinch. Of jealousy. Guess girls are different.

            A few minutes later the bus wheezed to a stop. The kids piled up and in. The yellow-orange rectangle disappeared around the bend. I sighed. And remembered. The day I sent him off to kindergarten. Back then when the bus had pulled away, I wept, quietly. And I smiled, sort of. All at the same time. I felt lonely, but I also felt free.
            I lingered there on the corner, my toes pointing down the yellow slanted curb, long after the other parents left. I focused on  the horizon. Craned my neck. Something was out there, way out yonder. I held my hand above my eyes to avoid the sun’s sharp glare. A breeze nudged the hair around my face. I shivered. In my gut, in my spirit, I knew everything was changing.
            I dawdled as I made my way back to the house. Kicked at pebbles and considered my life. The last year and the one before seemed like a black and white photograph. No, that’s not right. There was always color, but it was washed out—pastel and weak, with undertones of grey. Personally, I don’t care for pastels. I think they’re wimpy.
            Back home, I climbed the stone steps, then the wooden ones. I perched on the top stair. Pondered how for the past four years or so, I’d craved more. And then recently, I'd wanted much more. For the longest time I felt like a sleepy caterpillar in a dry and raspy, mocha latte-colored cocoon. What I longed to be was a butterfly—an aqua and magenta fluttering thing of beauty, starting to nudge, poke, and kick box my way out of a dusty coffin. I desired freshness, greenness, sunshine, and new life to fill me and my veins to overflowing.
            My elbows dug into my thighs as I framed my face with my hands. Spoke to the morning.

            "My life is kind of like a bell curve." 

            For years, I'd been ascending the left side—busily inch-worming my way toward the pinnacle. It seemed to take the longest time. One daughter. Another. A boy child. And then my son entered the bus that first day. Once he started school, the plummet began. The descent down the other side was slow at first, but then I gathered speed. I thrust my arms over my head and shouted, "Wheee!" Silently though, so no one would think I was rejoicing their absence. That wasn't it at all.

            For me there could be no more, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.”

            I cupped my hands around my mouth, but ended up speaking in a whisper.

            “Keep your silent sadness!” I told the memory of Henry David Thoreau. “What a snore! I want more than a grey rag of a life!”
            I criss-crossed my hands over my heart. Pictured God inside me, balancing on the rosy wet flesh of my lung. I felt him create a sphere with his breath—a bubble gum or living tissue balloon in the space beneath my ribs. What would happen if he let go? Surely it would go “WHOOOOSHHHH!” And then it would twist and shout, somersault and dance, with me wrapped around it, through my neighborhood and town, and eventually all over the world, in glorious, ecstatic, technicolor bliss.

The Biggest Loser

My son raised his hand at the kitchen table.

“This isn’t school, sweetie,” I said.  “What?”

“Why’d you give me a shot glass with my smoothie?”

I waited ‘til he took a swig.  “Um . . . I seem to have lost something.”

His eyes bulged.  His cheeks puffed.

“Like what?”

I busied myself wiping the stove.  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I said.  “Like the mango pit.  The shot glass is for the pit pieces.”

I turned when I heard him gag.  A peach-colored smoothie stream filled the tiny glass.

“Sorry,” he said as he pushed the big and little glasses across the table.  “I can’t.”

“Aw, c’mon.  It tastes way better than the time I lost the plastic measuring spoon.  And the extra fiber, it’ll . . .”

He made his lips disappear.  Shook his head violently.

I sighed.  “Got a quarter?”

One of his eyes got smaller.  “Yeah.  Why?”

“Let’s make a bet.  Do you think Daddy’ll figure it out or not?”

“He totally will,” my son said.  “It’s like there’s sunflower seed shells in there.”

My little guy and I tried to keep our faces straight while my husband sucked down his shake. He wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand then kissed me on the cheek.

“That hit the spot,” he said.  “I’m going for a run.  See ya later.”

I waited ‘til I heard the front door catch, then I stuck my hand, palm up, in front of my son. 

“You owe me twenty five cents.”

“Gambling’s evil,” he said.  “You know that, right?”

~~~

I searched everywhere for the receipt.  To figure out how much the watch cost.  The gift he got me for our twentieth wedding anniversary.  I found the paperwork in the bill pay dumping drawer.  I scootched my reading glasses up the bridge of my nose.  Used my pencil eraser to go line by line.  Found the store name.  Followed the dots over to the right.  My palms, underarms, and the divot under my nose felt suddenly damp.

“Did you find it yet?” my husband said when he came home from work. 

I shook my head and held my hand out for his lunch bag.  He went through the mail pile, slicing the top of each envelope with an old butter knife. 

“It’s probably gone forever, you know.”

I peered under the settee at a dust bunny.  “I don’t think so,” I said.  I squatted and picked up the dust fluff in a pincer grip.  “I’m pretty sure I’ll find it when I change my closet over.  It’s probably in a pair of shorts.  I bet I took it off to wash dishes one night.”

The next week I was at my desk.  Writing, editing, checking Facebook.  Same thing.  I heard a voice.  Well, I didn’t hear it really.  Not out loud or anything.  But it was definitely there, inside my head.

Lift up the printer.

There it was.  A small hill of silver links and a barely blue pearlescent face.  My throat felt tight.  I blinked a couple times to keep my eyes from spilling over.

I fished my cell out of my back pocket.  Slid it open.  Typed a text.

“Guess what I just found?”

“No way.”

“Way.”

I closed my phone.  Leaned back in my chair.  Gazed up at the ceiling.

“Thank you, sir.  Voice inside me, sir.”

~~~

I held the phone with my shoulder as I washed dishes. 

“Hello, Sunshine,” my husband said.

“Um, we have a problem.”

I heard his breath hiss out through his nose.  “What now?”

I rinsed my favorite pottery mug.  It’s pale aqua, celadon actually, with a ditch for my thumb and a dragonfly impression beneath the handle.

“I kinda, sorta  . . . misplaced the—“

Another angry nose noise.  “What did you lose now?”

I put the cup on the drying rack.  Petted the dragonfly with my Playtex rubber-gloved finger.

“The tax return,” I said.  “I stamped it.  Took it to the post office and everything.”

Huff.  “You’re kidding.  Tell me you’re teasing.  Wait a minute.  Is it April first?”

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me.  “No.  It’s not April Fool’s Day.  No such luck.”

“Dang it!  We’re getting back, like, $2,000.”

I pushed my lower lip out.  Pinched the bridge of my nose ‘cause it felt all prickly.

“Did you call anybody?”

I straightened and nodded.

“I did.  The High Street post office lady.  The one who always wears a Pittsburgh Steeler jersey on Fridays.  She said maybe someone’ll find it, be nice, and put it in the outgoing mail.”

Snort.  “Yeah, right.”

I grinned and paced as I waited for my husband to answer his phone.

“Guess what?” I said.

“What?”  His voice was still flat.  Even though the missing tax return debacle was a week old. 

“Please don’t be grumpy,” I said.  “I have good tidings.  She has it!  The Pittsburgh Steeler post office lady has our tax envelope.  The guy who changes the rugs every week found it this morning.  It was under the runner in front of the outgoing mail slot.”

“Thank God!  And . . .  sorry.  I was--”

“I did.  I know.”

~~~

Brrriiiinnnnnggggg!

I slung my jean jacket on the settee in the foyer before I answered the phone.

“Hello?”

It was my friend, Diana, from home group.  We’d just said goodbye, not even five minutes ago.  At the school, down the hill.

“You missing something?”

I tilted my head.  “I don’t think so,” I said.  “Like what?”

“Uh, like your son?”

My mouth fell open.  I put my hand over my heart.  Pound, pound.

“My little guy?”

I spun in a circle.  Pointed at people.  Oldest daughter, husband, middle child, her best friend.  No son.  No man boy of mine.

“You left him down here,” Diana said.  “At the school.  After the show.”

I bonked my forehead with my palm.  “Dang it!” I said.  “I’m such a bad mom.  I counted heads.  Got the right number, but the wrong kid.”

I grabbed my keys and jean jacket.  My husband stepped between me and the door. 

"I'm gonna get him.  You stay here with the others."

I whimpered but moved aside.  Watched him flip through the keys on the fish-shaped key rack.  Then he put his hands deep in his pockets--pants and coat.  All the while I heard his mutters.  Words like loser and responsibility and grown up. 

I followed him into the kitchen.  He dumped out his lunch bag on the counter.  Smacked the containers this way and that.  He went over to the key rack by the back door.  Sorted through each peg.  That's when I got it.  And grinned.

I walked into the dining room, to my secret hiding place.  Where I stash really important stuff--extra front door, back door, and car keys, and my debit card, when I remember to put it there.

I returned to my husband.  Held out a key to his car.

"Here."

He enclosed it with his fist.  It took him a second to lift his eyes to mine. 

"Oh.  Thanks.  And . . . I'm--"

"You're welcome, and . . . I know."

Bliss

Pops Walker looks like a rough George Clooney doing facial gymnastics.  To me, he sounds like Louis Armstrong, with maybe even more gravel in his gullet.  He goes somewhere when he performs, and I think I know where.  His destination, maybe another planet or constellation, is a place called Bliss.

I know Bliss 'cause I've been there too.  It's a place that when you get there, everything is right.  No.  Perfect.  The senses, all five of 'em, are standing at attention.  The creative synapses beneath your head skin are ready to snap, crackle, pop.  And your hands, or your mouth, or both, are ready to do the necessary things.  To create.

Pick your poison--poetry, prose, or song.  Slurp it into your being with a bendy straw, or shovel it in with a serving spoon.  Pick quality over quantity.  Pet your trachea to encourage your voice.

"Come on now.  Don't be shy.  Come out where folks can see you."

Into the air.  Onto the page.

I'm tuckered out.  When you listen, see, learn, internalize, visualize, share, that much, that fast, with like-minded folks, there's bound to be fatigue.  A hungover feeling on Monday.  A sadness that 12 months lie between today and the next time.

I know where Bliss is, do you?  Bliss is in Ripley, West Virginia.

(This piece is dedicated to all my West Virginia Writer pals.  Until we meet again.)