I jabbed the bell several times.
Alice, wearing the same platinum blond, crimped hairstyle and simpering facade she’d always sported, opened the door right away. At first she didn’t seem to recognize me, but then said, “Marguerite? What are you doing here?” Her lips pressed into a tight smile that didn’t mask her discomfort.
I inhaled a dense cloud of gardenia-scented perfume. “Is my father here?”
“No. Why would he be?”
I brushed past her and stalked into a small living room that sparkled with neatness. I felt like a detective snooping through a crime scene. Plush furniture lined the walls. A collection of ceramic figurines sat on the fireplace mantel, before an ornate gilded mirror. A low Florentine coffee table stood on the flowery carpet. I saw no evidence of my father—not his reading glasses, wallet, or the extra change he sometimes left by his easy chair.
“I haven’t spoken to Vern for over a week.” Alice said, remaining by the front door, one hand on her hip. “Is he missing? Maybe I can help.”
I hurled my words like daggers. “You’re the last person on earth I’d trust. I know all about you, how you’ve been throwing yourself at my father.” As I neared the fireplace, I was tempted to sweep my arm across the mantel and crash the expensive statuettes to the floor. Let Alice experience what it was like to have an intruder destroy her home the way she wrecked Mom’s.
Alice must have picked up my thoughts, because she lunged over, shaking her hands. She squeezed between me and the fireplace. “There are two sides to every story,” she said.
“Shut up, you tramp.”
Her pupils shrank to pinpricks. “Listen, I don’t care whose daughter you are. This is my home. I don’t have to put up with this.”
“Who pays for this house anyway?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions. If you don’t get out, I’ll call the police.”
I had no doubt she would do just that. I flung her a look of disgust, then bolted out the door. It slapped shut behind me, then I heard the clunk of a deadbolt locking. Out on the sidewalk, I rifled through my purse in search of my keys. Something sharp—maybe a pen—poked into the palm of my hand. I was so frustrated I felt like overturning my purse and strewing its contents on the sidewalk. But I figured Alice was watching me out the window. The last thing I wanted to do was give her something to laugh about.
I dug into my purse again, found the key, and rammed it into the lock. Listening to the motor sputter to life, I glanced over my shoulder at Alice’s house and wondered what kind of a life this woman led. If she loved Dad, her world had to be a pathetically lonely one. Before my father retired, he was usually home for dinner, on the weekends, and during holidays. And now he rarely left the house. He always carved the turkey on Thanksgiving Day and handed out presents on Christmas morning. Had Alice waited for him to show up when he felt like it, like Charlie under the dinner table begging for scraps?
Then I envisioned Mom curled on the couch in a fetal position, and my momentary pity for Alice flipped back to animosity. The woman deserved to suffer.
I pictured my father arriving here, perhaps with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Would he buy her roses, too? He’d always seemed like such a good husband and father. Growing up, I’d practically worshipped him. But the truth was, he was a rat. Even worse than Phil.
I released my foot from the brake pedal, and the car puttered down the street. Something flickering on the dashboard signaled a problem. The idiot light? What did that mean? I checked the gas gauge and noticed the needle resting on empty. I’d meant to fill up the tank the day before, but was so preoccupied I forgot.
By the time I’d reached the nearest gas station, the light blazed red. I pulled in behind a Suburban and waited for the driver to pay before I could coast forward into position. A gust of soggy air billowed into the car as I stepped out. The sky opened up, whipping raindrops under the gas pump overhang. I selected the cheapest grade, pulled up the lever, and dragged the hose over to my car only to remember that the gas tank was located on the other side. Muttering words that hadn’t entered my mind since my teens, I stretched the hose over the top of the trunk and rammed the nozzle into the gas tank.
It would be nice to have a man with me right now, I thought. Dad always pumped Mom’s gas, but maybe never again. Was it possible my parents would get a divorce? That seemed ridiculous. Yet, if I were in Mom’s shoes, I might do the same thing she’d done: kick the good-for-nothing out. Were there no decent men? Even my son had turned out to be a louse.
The nozzle handle lurched in my hand, indicating the tank was full. As I pulled the nozzle out, an elongated dribble of gasoline spurted across my pant leg. I read the dollar amount, opened my wallet, and found just enough cash to cover it.
Finally at home, I felt like I’d run a marathon. Charlie demanded my attention; the dog sat on his haunches, his paws crossed. I scooped him up and cuddled him, and his wiry body trembled with ecstasy.
“You’re my best buddy, aren’t you?” I remembered the Scottish tale of a small terrier that slept on his master’s grave after the old gentleman died. The compassionate townspeople fed the dog, who refused to leave the graveside. Now that was devotion, I thought, the kind rarely found among humans.
“You’ll never leave me, will you?”
