Chasing Rainbows A Novel

NINETEEN


“HJR HEKHJ UW HJR XLHHRE OP HJLH ZUK LDVLZP BMUV HJR EOTJH HJOMT HU QU. HJR JLEQ YLEH OP QUOMT OH.”

-TRM. MUEXLM PFJVLENBUWW

I’d gone straight home after leaving the hospital and spent much of the day reliving the argument with my brother. I’d written another column, this one about acting like a jerk and not being woman enough to admit it.

I’d never heard anything after I’d emailed my last letter to the editor, so writing this one probably served no purpose. The process was cathartic, just the same.

I’d just pushed Send on my email when the doorbell rang.

I welcomed the interruption, yet surprise slid through me at the sight of a smiling Number Thirty-Six standing on my front step.

“It’s a beautiful evening. I thought maybe you and Poindexter might like to stop over for coffee.”

I pressed my lips together, raking a hand through hair. Was this guy for real?

I shook my head. “What part of ‘don’t touch the stuff’ is tripping you up?”

Even as I said the words, I realized the house still reeked of the pot I’d made while writing.

Number Thirty-Six grinned--a great, crooked grin that made it clear he saw right through me. “The part where I don’t believe you.”

I shrugged.

A vertical line formed between his brows. “How about walking? Do you walk?”

“Of course I walk,” I answered defensively.

What kind of question was that? But then it hit me. He’d tricked me. And I’d fallen for it.

“I mean--” I stammered a bit, trying to figure a way to back-pedal out of my answer.

Number Thirty-Six didn’t give me time to say another word. He brushed past me, headed for the back door with a decidedly smug gleam in his eyes. “Great. I’ll grab Poindexter and we’ll go.”

Number Thirty-Six opened the back door and Poindexter bounded inside, headed straight for the front door as if the two of them had done this a thousand times before.

I stood, rooted to the spot as Number Thirty-Six brushed past me, looping Poindexter’s leash over his shoulder.

I pointed. “Aren’t you going to put that on--”

“Doesn’t need it.” He shook his head and grinned. “Watch and learn.”

I glowered at him, not in the mood to have the fact he’d turned my obedience-school-drop-out mutt into Super Dog rubbed in my face. I followed anyway, pulling the front door closed behind me as Poindexter bounded across the front yard then sat on the sidewalk, waiting for instruction.

Sonofa--

“Poindexter. Walk.” Number Thirty-Six’s voice rang so authoritatively I instantly understood why the dog listened to him and not to me.

I hurried to catch up, walking quietly behind them as Number Thirty-Six barked out commands for Poindexter to heel, sit, stay and walk. I had to admit I was impressed.

I’d spent countless hours with local pet trainers, dog food store clerks and veterinarians, when all the while the obedience answer had taken up residence two doors down, in the form of Number Thirty-Six.

My stomach did a little flipping action I could have lived without, but I quickened my pace to catch up to Number Thirty-Six. Poindexter walked calmly in front of us.

“I’m still nervous about the no-leash thing.”

He shot me a sideways glance and the corner of his mouth quirked. “Amateur.”

I narrowed my gaze on him. “I’m sorry, were there some professional dog training credentials you haven’t yet shared with me?”

His crooked grin grew wide. “It’s all in the voice. That’s all you need to remember.”

I blew out a laugh. “It might be all in your voice, but it certainly isn’t in mine.”

“Sure it is.” He stopped, tipping his chin toward Poindexter. “You go. Make him listen to you.”

I swallowed, my pulse quickening ridiculously. I couldn’t believe how nervous Number Thirty-Six’s suggestion made me. I mean, this was my dog we were talking about. Surely I could control him.

Couldn’t I?

“I forgot to bring his treats,” I said.

“Don’t need them.” Number Thirty-Six spoke so authoritatively I almost believed him.

But when a pair of squirrels crossed our path, Poindexter was gone in the blink of an eye. Tearing across one front yard and down the side of another, headed for the street just as a small car careened around the bend.

“Poindexter!” I screamed, the scene unfolding before my eyes as if I were powerless to stop the inevitable.

“Give him a command.” Number Thirty-Six spoke sharply, his own anxiety blatant in his usually unflappable tone.

“Stop! No! Poindexter!”

I broke into a run, measuring the trajectory of the car’s path against the direction of my dog’s sprint. The car swerved, narrowly missing the first of the squirrels. Poindexter cleared the curb, headed directly into the path of the car’s unforgiving bumper.

“Sit!” Number Thirty-Six’s voice boomed from beside me. “Now!”

Poindexter dropped like a shot as the sound of squealing tires filled the air. The car came to a standstill mere inches from my beloved dog’s now motionless form.

I dropped to my knees, tears stinging my eyes. “Holy shit.”

“He’s all right.” Number Thirty-Six placed his palm on my shoulder. I slapped it away as I stood up, the force of my anger taking me by surprise.

“No thanks to you.” I waved to the car. “I’m sorry.” Then pointed at my dog. “Get over here now.”

He sprinted to my side as I turned toward Number Thirty-Six, glaring at him, reaching for the leash.

I yanked it from his shoulder and snapped the clasp onto Poindexter’s collar. I leaned down, making full eye contact with the dog. To my surprise, he held my gaze, not shirking away to avoid the conflict sure to come.

I waggled my finger at his nose. “If you ever do that again, I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”

I straightened, pulled the leash short and stepped off toward home, wanting as much distance as possible between myself and Number Thirty-Six.

“He listened,” Number Thirty-Six called out after me. “You didn’t give him the right command. And next time, don’t run after him.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

I spun on him. “Are you f*cking kidding me?” I sounded like the wicked witch on speed, but didn’t care. “Don’t you know he’s all I have? All I have. What the hell were you thinking? Why can’t you just believe me that the dog doesn’t listen? Why can’t you just leave this alone?”

I turned back toward home but stopped and turned to deliver my parting shot. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

His features fell as if I’d slapped him, but I didn’t care.

I didn’t need Number Thirty-Six. Poindexter didn’t need Number Thirty-Six. We’d been just fine before the guy moved onto the street and into our lives. We’d be just fine again without him.

And by the time I reached home, pushed Poindexter inside and slammed the door shut behind us, I almost had myself convinced I was right.

o0o

Two hours later, I was still so angry at Number Thirty-Six and at myself there was only one thing to do. I marched into the kitchen and began a drawer by drawer search for chocolate.

The old me had stockpiled the stuff by the bagful, the new me hadn’t allowed myself to buy any in weeks.

Idiot.

Drawer after drawer, I came up empty-handed, until I pulled out the drawer next to my work desk. The thing was loaded to the brim--not with full bags--but with wrappers, empty bags, shreds of foil, paper, traces of crumbs.

I had never seen such a pathetic display of zero willpower in my life. I stared at the evidence and frowned. Who had I been hiding these from? Myself?

I scooped the mess out of the drawer and retraced my steps, dumping the load on the kitchen table. Poindexter’s tail thumped noisily against the floor. He’d once devoured a small box of gourmet chocolates and had lived to bark about it.

Because of that, he’d never been a big believer in the whole dogs-can’t-eat-chocolate mantra. Of course--I studied the mess of empty wrappers and cringed--apparently I hadn’t left a morsel for him to worry about.

I swept the entire mess into the trash can and poured myself a large glass of water. I chugged down the contents, trying not to gag as the last gulp splashed into my stomach.

I glanced at the clock. Wasn’t there some sort of diet rule about waiting twenty minutes when you thought you couldn’t live without inhaling something?

Twenty minutes.

I thought about the day I’d had. The week I’d had. Heck, the last several months I’d had.

I could do twenty minutes. All I needed was a distraction.

I scanned the kitchen and spotted exactly what I needed--the long forgotten bead shop bag I’d tossed onto the counter during my search.

Even though I knew I had no future in jewelry, I had spent a small fortune on supplies all those months ago.

I hadn’t looked at the bag since. Matter of fact, I’d forgotten about it completely. Until now.

I drew in a deep breath and sighed. This was sure to be an exercise in futility, but if playing with beads kept me from running out for chocolate, more power to the beads.

I carried the bag to the kitchen table and worked slowly, methodically, setting out the tools I’d purchased, the beading wire the young woman had told me was the be-all and end-all of bracelet design, the cards touting simple patterns to follow, and the beads.

I first dumped out the contents of a bag of purple beads, then a bag of lime green beads. Different. Spring-like. Bright. I used a placemat to keep the glass beads from rolling away, positioning them, lining them up by size, then alternating patterns, but still I wasn’t pleased with the results.

Finally I dumped out the contents of every bag of beads I’d purchased, keeping everything separated by color.

I stared at the piles, waiting for some sort of inspiration.

I stared.

I squinted.

I blinked.

I placed a round bead here, a square bead there, an oval bead here, yet nothing looked right and everything looked wrong.

Whatever I’d learned that night at the bead shop had left my memory completely.

I glanced up at the clock. Five minutes left before the drugstore at the corner shut for the night. If I wanted to inhale a jumbo bag of M&Ms, it was now or never.

I thought about refilling the water glass again, really I did. Matter of fact, I was still thinking about doing just that as I screeched the car to a stop in front of the store and launched myself into a full-out sprint.

Hours later, queasy from too much sugar yet lulled into complacency by the chocolate, I passed the pile of beads on the kitchen table on my way to let Poindexter out one last time before bed.

I thought about attacking the bracelet project again, but decided against it.

In the words of the great Scarlet O’Hara, tomorrow was another day.

As far as I was concerned, tomorrow was plenty soon enough.

o0o

Poindexter was out back barking before I even had a chance to get the coffee started the next morning. I’d stumbled downstairs in the throes of a sugar hangover to let him out back, then I’d stumbled back upstairs to get dressed.

I peeked out my bedroom window, watching the dog race back and forth across the yard. Based on the level of his frenzy, the planes must be coming in for landing no more than thirty seconds apart.

I prayed Mrs. Cooke would forgive me for another early morning wake-up call as I stared into my closet. Reaching inside, I pulled out a pair of yoga pants that had never seen a yoga class in their life. Then I plucked Dad’s shirt out of the closet, pulling it over my head without undoing the buttons.

Turning toward the mirror, I pictured my father in the shirt, the deep red stripes weaving in and out of blue and green and gold, the plaid bold and comfortable. I could see his smile as if he were there with me, beside me, alive.

The past faded into the present and a tremble started deep within me, shaking me from the inside out. I sank to the floor, not even trying to quell the overwhelming sense of sadness that surged through me. But when the doorbell rang, I welcomed the interruption.

No one in his or her right mind would stop by this early, but based on my current mental state, any company would be good company.

Mrs. Cooke stood on the doorstep, a covered plate in one hand, a thermos in the other.

“I heard Poindexter so I brought you over some breakfast, dear.” She spoke the words cheerfully as she breezed past me, headed toward the kitchen.

She unscrewed the top of the thermos, took two mugs from the cabinet and poured coffee in both. Then she uncovered a dish of homemade muffins.

I leaned against the doorjamb, taking in the sight, wondering if I still might be asleep and dreaming.

When she opened the back door and called Poindexter in, I pinched myself.

Poindexter gave Mrs. Cooke a warm greeting, and she rewarded him with a dog biscuit from the pocket of her cardigan.

Morning people.

How did they do it?

“You really shouldn’t have.” I gestured toward the counter and to Poindexter. “But, it’s awfully nice.”

She pulled out a chair and tipped her head. I followed her directive obediently, dropping into the chair as she set a stack of napkins and the plate of muffins in the center of the table. I took a long swallow of coffee the instant she handed me the mug, then squinted at the woman.

“Why?”

The corners of her eyes crinkled with kindness as she patted my hand. “A little birdie told me you’ve got a lot going on.”

My squint morphed into a frown.

She read my unspoken question, nodding her head. “Aidan.”

“Who?” I straightened.

“Aidan.” A mischievous grin lit her face, her pale eyes dancing. “I believe you call him Number Thirty-Six.”

Oh, that Aidan. I slid lower in my seat, ashamed of myself.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice to him yesterday, Mrs. Cooke.”

“Call me Sophie, dear.” She pulled out a chair and joined me, plucking a muffin from the plate and peeling back the paper cup in which she’d baked the pastry.

“Sophie,” I repeated, testing out the feel of her name. I liked it. “Anyway--” I shook my head “--it was awfully nice of him to let you know.”

“He’s a nice boy.” She nodded.

Yeah, when he wasn’t sending your dog out on suicide missions without a leash.

We sat in silence for several long moments, sipping our coffee and eating. There was something in Sophie Cooke’s eyes I couldn’t quite put my finger on. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she knew I’d been more than a little harsh with Number Thirty-Six.

I decided to test out my theory.

“I might have been worse than not very nice,” I said softly.

“I know, dear.”

“You do?”

She nodded, a mischievous twinkle dancing in her gaze. “I may have cracked my window open to hear a bit better.”

My mouth fell open as I sat back against the chair.

“Mrs. Cooke.” I teased.

“Sophie.”

“Sophie,” I repeated. “You were eavesdropping?”

She gave a slight lift and drop of her slender shoulders. “A woman’s got to get her excitement somehow.” The corners of her mouth pulled into a smile, lighting her features.

I smiled in return, ran a hand through my hair and sighed. “I really was mean, wasn’t I?”

She nodded.

“Do you think I overreacted?”

Another nod.

“What should I do?”

She blinked as if the question were a no-brainer. “You could always talk to him, dear. Go apologize. I’m sure he’s sorry for pushing you and Poindexter a bit too hard.”

I narrowed my gaze and she nodded.

“He doesn’t bite, last time I checked.”

Too bad.

The image of his hurt expression when I’d told him he needed to leave me alone flashed through my mind’s eye.

Shame on me.

Sophie’s kind gaze narrowed. “He knows you’re under a lot of stress, dear,” she said as if reading my thoughts. “I wouldn’t worry too much about what happened.”

She reached for the placemat covered in beads that I’d shoved aside to make room for our impromptu breakfast.

“What are you working on?” She traced a finger over a red piece of round glass, then a turquoise square.

I reached for a second muffin, but pulled my hand back. After the calories I’d inhaled last night, a second muffin was most definitely out of the question if I ever wanted to wear anything other than yoga pants and big shirts again.

“I wanted to make a bracelet.” I shrugged. “But I’m having a difficult time picturing the finished product.”

“Beautiful colors,” she said as she pushed back her chair. “Looks like a rainbow, doesn’t it?”

I stood to give her a thank you hug as she headed for the front door, but I couldn’t help but stare over her shoulder at the placemat full of beads.

A rainbow.

I’d be damned.

Sophie was right.

After she headed back home, I stood over the kitchen table and stared at the piles of colored beads. Reds. Purples. Greens. Blues.

I pulled one bead of each color, lining them into a single row, not worrying about matching sizes or shapes or textures. I poured another cup of coffee then cut a long length of wire, setting the instruction card next to me as I settled down to create my masterpiece.

An hour later, I’d started and stopped and woven and unwoven the bracelet more times than I could count. I wanted to create a masterpiece symbolic of my life--my new life--but all I succeeded in doing was making a mess.

I pushed aside the beads I’d been working with, mixing them with all of the other beads spread out on the placemat. Frustration bubbled up inside me and I slid everything back into the store bag, mixing colors and shapes and sizes. I sealed the bag and dropped the entire mess back into the drawer.

I pictured how Mrs. Cooke’s eyes had brightened at the sight of the beads, thought of how she’d encouraged me to apologize to Number Thirty-Six.

But I knew better.

I slid the drawer shut, drew in a deep breath then sighed.

Sometimes, the best course of action was to walk away. To admit defeat and quit.

Simple. Effective. Painless.

But as I headed for a hot shower, I didn’t feel effective at all.

I felt like a quitter and I didn’t like it.

I didn’t like it one bit.

o0o

“The truth of the matter is that you always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it.”

-Gen. Norman Schwarzkoff