The Blessings of the Animals_A Novel

CHAPTER Thirty-Seven

WHEN A NEW CLIENT SAID SHE WAS A DANCE INSTRUCTOR, I perked up. “What kind of dance?”
“Mostly Latin,” she said, in a surprisingly deep, melodic voice that didn’t match her willowy body. Her pale skin and ice-blue eyes made you expect something other than her warmth.
The geriatric Siamese cat she’d brought in hissed at me, baring its plaque-coated teeth. It was the woman’s mother’s cat. Her mother had suffered a stroke, and this woman, Colleen Jewell, had moved home from New York City to care for her.
“I used to work in a studio in the city. I danced competitively, but I also taught.”
“Are you— Do you think you might have time to do any classes here?”
“I would love to,” she said. “I actually have a studio in my mother’s basement, from when I lived here. Dance floor, mirrors. It would do my heart good to use it.”
When I called Dubey to tell him I’d found us another dance class, he said, “Excellent! I’m in.”
I gathered other couples for our private class. Colleen undercharged us for the course; she seemed grateful to get to do it. We brought all the makings for a bar and served cocktails before we started. Helen and Hank were in. Olive and Nick. Aurora and her friend Mike. The Davids—how wonderful that they could dance together.
“Dubey’s cute,” Olive whispered to me.
“He smells good,” Helen said.
“He can dance,” Aurora said.
Hank was a good dancer, a natural, but Dubey had finesse and style. Dubey never seemed to get out of breath, the way Hank did.
Everyone seemed to like Dubey, but that overly polite quality remained until Colleen switched all of us around, leaving Big David and Dubey as partners. That traditional tension caused by a lifetime of defending my baby brother from a*sholes suddenly clenched my neck. Dubey, however, was unfazed. “You wanna lead or follow?” he asked.
Big David said, “I always follow.”
Dubey said, “Cool, ’cause I don’t know how.” They took the dancer stance, Colleen started the music, and I loved that man.
As I danced with Nick, I realized Binky would never have danced with a man. I didn’t think Vijay would’ve, either.
After that dance, the feeling in the room shifted. Everyone got a bit louder, a bit sillier. The profanity flew a little less sheepishly. I knew Dubey was in.
The holidays were looking brighter all the time.
GABBY AND I HAD AFFECTIONATELY CALLED BOBBY Scrooge, but really, until I had this distance, I hadn’t been aware of the toll his generally pissy attitude about Christmas had taken on me.
For years, when he’d insistently repeat, “God, I hate Christmas,” I’d wanted to snap, You do? Gee, I didn’t pick that up from the first seven hundred times you said it.
I’d begun to dread the holidays, too, because it meant Bobby would brood and drink too much at my family’s gatherings. I’d watch him and try to gauge, Has he had enough? Does he want to leave? All my energy went into monitoring his moods.
I knew that the root of this holiday misery came from his dysfunctional childhood. Olive had confirmed this. Holidays had typically been horrific, with their father either drunk or absent, but what had made Bobby’s reaction to it so different from Olive’s? Olive seemed to rejoice as an adult in the season that had been tainted for her as a child. She took control over it.
That’s the path I chose to take myself.
GABRIELLA AND I DECIDED TO MAKE A PHOTO CHRISTMAS card with all the animals. What possessed us I’ll never know, but we knotted red velvet ribbons in Biscuit’s and Moonshot’s forelocks and tied both horses with red cotton lead ropes to the heaviest fence near the St. Francis flower bed. We fixed red bows on one of Muriel’s horns and on Max’s collar.
Luna, once we’d braided red ribbon into her coarse mane, had refused to participate, planting her hooves like fence posts, not even willing to be bribed with carrots.
Helen and Hank came to photograph us, and I laughed so hard I was certain I would pee my pants. Biscuit pulled away and tried to eat grass. Moonshot tried to bite Biscuit. Muriel climbed onto Gabriella, leaving a big manure streak from her hoof on Gabby’s new sweater. Gerald growled and Gingersnap answered, their demonic noises growing louder and more insistent.
Hank danced around like an idiot, trying to get the motley crew to look at the camera. He waved a towel. He threw his hat. He did jumping jacks until he panted. He rattled corn in a can—but that made Muriel break free from our group and rush over to him, standing up with her front hooves on his chest just like a begging dog. Max barked at what he knew was Muriel’s break from formation. The cats escalated to spitting. I laughed so hard I could barely sit upright.
“Hey! Hey! Over here! Look at me!” Hank called, prancing, jigging, wheezing. He looked so ridiculous that Helen turned to take a picture of him.
Moonshot lunged at Biscuit, grabbing his leather halter. Biscuit squealed and reared, striking the fence and knocking off a board, which made Gabby and me leap up. The cats fled. Max chased them, barking, and Muriel happily ate the corn that Hank had dropped.
“Okay, enough!” I said through my giggles. I opened Moonshot’s gate and shooed him in, his red ribbon falling into the frozen mud on the way.
We huddled, shivering and laughing, looking through the series of digital photos. When we got to the photo of Hank we howled.
“Delete that this second,” he ordered, grinning.
Helen’s photo had captured him with his right arm in the air, towel flying, his left hip and arm thrust out, looking for all the world like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.
Helen tipped her head back and shouted, “I love this man!”
Hank looked at the photo and shook his head. “The things I do for you.”
There was one photo that, for a group animal shot, was as good as it gets—everyone’s mouth was closed, no teeth or fangs bared. But Gabby and I both kept returning to a more chaotic shot: Gabby holds up Gingersnap, who has her back claws attached to Gabby’s jeans. The goat stands on Gabby’s thigh, with some of Gabby’s hair in her mouth. Max’s long muzzle points skyward as he howls at the mayhem. Gerald snarls like a vampire. Moonshot, teeth bared, reaches toward Biscuit. Biscuit cranes his neck away—doh doh dee doh—stretching for the grass. Luna’s butt is visible in the background as she stands in her paddock. St. Francis’s head is turned to the right, although his body faces front. Gabby and I both laugh eyes-squinted-mouths-wide-open laughs.
We printed it as our Christmas card with the words on the front, “ . . . and wild and sweet . . .” and continued inside, “ . . . the words repeat, of Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men (and women and children and animals).”
I meant it, too. I wished good will to Vijay, wherever he was.
I even wished it to Binky.
I overflowed with good will for Ginger Avalon when a Christmas card arrived from her. It contained a generous board check far exceeding the price we’d agreed upon, an apology, and the words, “It looks like it’ll be after the holidays before I can come collect the Ohio horses.”
“He’s never leaving, is he?” Gabby asked.
“I’m afraid he is,” I said. “Just not yet. Ginger gave me a Christmas present.”
GABBY AND I DECIDED TO GET A LIVE CHRISTMAS TREE, something I hadn’t enjoyed in sixteen years.
We’d always had live Christmas trees in my childhood home. Just like they did all things, Mom and Dad were slow and meticulous with tree selections, so Davy and I would grow bored and run through the display, playing hide-and-seek. Davy would often find some scrawny, lopsided tree and feel sorry for it, growing anxious about how it would “feel” being left behind there, never chosen by anyone. He could get so pale and fretful about it that on three occasions I recall my parents buying two trees—a runty misfit tree for the entrance foyer and a majestic one for the sitting room.
My parents bought Davy and me an ornament each year so that when we moved away to homes of our own, we could take our ornaments with us. They picked things to commemorate some event or accomplishment from that year of our lives. I had a little red bicycle from the year I learned to ride a bike, an Eiffel Tower for the year Vijay and I went on the French club trip to Paris, a stethoscope for the year I became a vet. Davy had a scarecrow for the year he played that role in our high school’s performance of The Wizard of Oz, an apple for the year he became a teacher, a tiny two-groom cake topper my mother had found the year they had their ceremony.
Bobby had sighed about a Christmas tree. He’d sighed about the fallen needles I was rather nonchalant about vacuuming. He got impatient and profane putting on the lights, so I’d taken over. He just wasn’t into it. That’s okay, I thought. No big deal.
Our second married Christmas, I heard of a place with great, inexpensive live trees. When we arrived, the lovely snow had turned to rain, and the little dirt road that led to the tree farm had turned into a puddinglike mess. Once we’d selected our tree—a gorgeous one, incredibly cheap for how large it was—our truck got stuck in the mud. We had to be pulled out, and during the process Bobby got sprayed with mud from the spinning wheels.
On the way home, we were hit from behind by a person with no insurance.
Once we finally made it home, the tree turned out to be too big. I had to saw it down.
Then our cat climbed it, tipping it over, narrowly missing Gabby in her baby seat. I had to wire the tree to the ceiling to keep ballistic Bobby from hauling it to the trash.
We woke up one morning to loud “pop!” and “pow!” sounds—the tree was shooting pine nuts all over the room. When I cleaned up the pine nuts (and broke our vacuum sweeper in the process), I didn’t realize that the nuts had also spurted out sticky sap that left our new white carpet damp. I set our packages—all wrapped in blue paper—around the base of the tree. After we opened them on Christmas morning, we discovered blue stains on the carpet—stains that proved impossible to remove.
The next year, when I suggested getting a tree, Bobby shot me a look. And that was that.
GABBY AND I SELECTED A MODEST BUT AROMATIC TREE ONE evening on the way home from the clinic. As we put on the lights and made popcorn garlands, I asked, “What are your plans with your dad for Christmas?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said. I hated the worry lines that appeared on her forehead. “But we’ll do Christmas Eve like usual, right?”
“Sure.” We’d always celebrated Christmas Eve at my parents’ with the Davids and then had Christmas Day with the Binardis in Columbus. This saved us from having to do two family gatherings in one day, which invariably got exhausting, especially back in nap-time days.
Gabriella paused, her threaded needle poised in her hand. “If I’m with Dad on Christmas Day, what will you do?” Her sweet eyes darkened with concern.
“I’ll be fine.” It was a lie. The thought of Christmas Day spent alone felt bleak, but no way would I give my daughter any more baggage to carry. “I might go to Helen and Hank’s.”
This seemed to please her.
I’d asked Dubey what he was doing, and although he’d seemed happy to be asked, he wasn’t sure yet and couldn’t commit.
I thought of Vijay, who always came home for Christmas. I could spend the day with him. We could go to a movie, or rent one and watch it here with the fire— If he would speak to me, that is.
As we unpacked the ornaments, most of which Gabby had never seen, I told her how I’d started to keep my parents’ tradition. “We bought this one the year you first saw the beach,” I said, holding up a little dolphin, “and this one when we took you to Italy”—I showed her a delicate golden blown-glass ball. “You get to take these with you when you have your own place.”
“What a cool idea!” Gabriella said. “I need to start getting you an ornament each year, too.”
I couldn’t wait to see what she’d pick for me.
GABBY PRESENTED HER GIFT ON OUR SECOND SNOW DAY OF the year, a morning I’d scheduled off because I had my annual mammogram and gyno appointment (fun, fun—but both ended up being canceled because of the snow). Flakes so small and multiple you could hardly distinguish them in the milky air accumulated in high cake slices on the tree limbs, fence tops, and cars.
I made pancakes after we did the morning feed, then Gabriella gave me my ornaments.
The first was a tiny cat stitched of brown felt with an embroidered face and whiskers.
She’d cut off its left front leg.
“They didn’t have one the right color,” she explained, “but you’ll always remember the year you found Gerald was the year we all lost . . . stuff.”
“Lost stuff,” I repeated, my eyes burning. “I love it.”
“Jeez, Mom, don’t cry. Here’s another one.”
I unfolded the tissue paper to discover a little goat with wings and a halo. I laughed aloud, “An angel goat?”
“I know! Isn’t it perfect? And look at this.”
“Another one?” I opened a white palm-sized church with a steeple, only three-sided, with the entire back a golden stained glass.
“Hold it up to the light,” she instructed.
I did. My breath caught. Inside this church, silhouetted against the golden glass, was a horse. Tail raised, neck arched, about to commit mischief.
I found a perfect spot for them in the tree, with the church in front of a light so that the horse was illuminated against the amber glow. There they were: my guides. My priests. My ministers.
We spent the rest of the morning covered in quilts, a dog, and two cats, watching Christmas specials—crying, “Zuzu’s petals!” along with Jimmy Stewart.
DUBEY AND I WENT FOR DRINKS ONE NIGHT AFTER SALSA class. When I asked again about his plans for Christmas Day, he seemed to stiffen. “I’ll tell you when I know.” Then he softened and said, “Like I said before, if I’m free, I’d love to do something with you.”
Later, I asked Gabriella again about Bobby’s plans for Christmas and she still didn’t know. This time, she answered as if I’d asked her a hundred times already, which set off alarm bells.
As the last day of school approached and Gabby’s winter break loomed before us, I asked a third time. She said, “He’s going away, actually.”
I fought not to look pissed. I kept my voice neutral. “Really? Where?”
Her eyes looked sad, but her voice was defiant. “Vegas.”
I couldn’t speak. He’d always wanted to leave for Christmas and I’d never agreed. I had a sudden, irrational thought: if I’d agreed to go somewhere for Christmas, some ridiculous place he’d suggested to entice me, like Hawaii, Jamaica, or Belize, would we still be married? Is this why he’d left? I shook my head. It would never be that simple, the reason. All these months later and I still tortured myself with that game?
“Don’t be so judgmental!” Gabby said.
I opened my arms. “I didn’t say anything!”
“I can see you thinking,” she said. “Standing there hating him.”
“That . . . that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.”
I wanted to ask if he’d invited her to go with him, but she gave me the answer when she said, “He asked if we’d babysit Zuzu. I said we would.”
“VEGAS?” I RANTED AT THE NEXT GNO. “HE’D RATHER GO to some cheap-ass, tacky hellhole than be with his daughter? Does he not think about her at all? Does he simply not give a shit?”
“He made Ma cry,” Olive said. “How hard can it be? What is so goddamn hard about spending a day with people who f*cking love you? The son of a bitch. He says he doesn’t want to ‘do Christmas’ this year. At all.”
“And now I’m taking care of his goddamn dog!”
Olive still wanted Gabriella to come over that day, and she and Nick were willing to come get her, if she wanted to come.
“Call and invite her,” I pleaded. “Please. I have to stay out of it. I can tell she’s crushed, but if I say one word, she attacks me for judging Bobby.”
“You can always come play with me and Hank,” Helen said.
I loved my friends. We toasted to Christmas, to friends, to the clinic’s success, to Olive and Nick’s recovery from their latest fight over the wedding guest list (they were up to three hundred!), and to the amazing chicken tikka masala we were eating.
“Have you heard from Vijay?” Aurora asked.
My mouth immediately crumpled. I’d received a postcard from India that had arrived weeks after its postmark date. It’d said, “I’m trying to reflect and think about the life I want to live. I always want you to be a part of it.” I’d analyzed those meager sentences obsessively. Flickers of hope tried to ignite.
I blew my nose and said, “I miss him so much. It’s awful.”
“But what about that Dubey guy?” Olive asked. “You’re seeing him, right?”
I smiled. “I guess so. Kind of. Things are progressing . . . slowly.”
“Good,” Olive said. “You should be in a relationship.”
“Hello.” I gestured to the women at my table. “I have lots of relationships.”
Olive made her smoke-ring mouth. “You know what I mean.”
“I know you’re worried about Gabby,” Helen said, “but do you have plans for Christmas?”
“Maybe. I might be doing something with Dubey. He’s not sure he can yet.”
Helen studied me. “What? You just gonna sit around and wait?”
I realized that was exactly what I’d been going to do.
“No,” I said. “I’m coming to your house. For sure. I just might be bringing a date.”
Helen nodded. “That’s better,” she said.