“I used to cringe when I heard the teacher’s voice on the phone. ‘Your son’s not paying attention. He hasn’t turned in his homework. He forgot his book again.’” I’d tried to emulate my mother and father. Being the only parent in the house, I’d attempted to listen with two pairs of ears and see with two sets of eyes. Each time Rob floundered, I’d pushed harder. “I probably should have hired a tutor or sent him to private school or held him back a year.” Or maybe I’d just been a lousy mother. “Now Rob’s about to become a teenage parent. Why didn’t he tell me about the pregnancy himself? After all I’ve done for him, why was Phil the one he turned to?”
“I wouldn’t take it personally,” he said with empathy. “No matter how tough they act, all kids hate disappointing their parents. I’m sure Rob loves you very much. In fact, you may be the one he wants to please the most.”
“Then why does he want to live with his father instead of me?”
“Maybe so he can feel more independent. Phil’s pretty loose, and you’d be across town if Rob needed you.” He reached over the table to take my hand. “Don’t give up hope. I married young and went to junior college for two years, then finished my education at a university.”
I could feel calluses on his hands. But they were gentle. My shoulders relaxed as I felt his warmth move up my arm.
“Marguerite, no matter how much we try, we can’t guarantee our children’s futures.”
“That’s true. I had model parents, and I sure didn’t fulfill their expectations.”
He withdrew his hand. “Your parents seemed proud of you at dinner the other night.”
I was like an uncorked bottle, the way I spilled out my thoughts. “I’m the least successful of their three children. The one who took all the wrong turns.”
“There are many kinds of success, and many paths to reach them,” he said. “Sometimes those dumb mistakes still lead us to where we want to go. God gave us free will, but he’s still in charge.”
The phone rang so abruptly it made us both start. I leapt up to answer it.
“I have your dog here,” said a Mrs. Binder in a voice sounding like my grandmother before she died. “He’s been visiting my little Georgette. She’s a miniature poodle. Charlie’s been sampling her food while he dries off. Your dog certainly was wet when he arrived, but he’s just fine and dandy now.”
Mrs. Binder described her house and how her husband had passed away two years before. Finally she disclosed her address, only two blocks away, and I flew out the door, leaving Henry at the table. In ten minutes I returned with Charlie in my arms. On the walk home I’d contemplated how to repay Mrs. Binder. A plate of cookies or a coffee cake wouldn’t work for a granny type, who was probably far more proficient in the kitchen than I was. I decided to buy her some flowers and deliver them in person, with Charlie at my side. If the woman wanted a long chat, as she’d seemed to today, we would stay for a visit.
Charlie was fluffy dry, having had a thorough brushing, something he didn’t tolerate at home. Once in the kitchen he tottered to his basket, folded his legs, and dropped onto his mat.
I sat down. “What a relief. That little guy and I have been friends for a long time. I’d be heartbroken if anything happened to him.” There would never be another Charlie. Long ago I’d decided not to attempt to replace him when he died of old age.
“I understand,” Henry said. “I like dogs too.”
I’d seen no evidence of one at his house. If it were true that dogs reflected their owners’ personalities, I wondered what kind he’d chose.
“Have you ever owned one?” I asked.
“Yes, just one.”
“What kind?”
He poured both of us fresh tea, then watched the steam rise from his cup. “Some sort of collie mix. My folks gave him to me when I was six.”
“How long did he live?”
“Less than a year.” Pausing for a moment, he expelled a long hard breath through his mouth. “I arrived home from school one day, and Laddie wasn’t waiting for me on the front porch, as he always did. I went into the house, calling his name, but he didn’t come. My mother told me he’d been hit by a car.”
“How awful. How did it happen?”
“My parents let him run free. I begged them to build a fence, but they wouldn’t. I guess they didn’t know any better. I haven’t thought about Laddie for years. Crazy, but it still makes me want to cry.”
“Some things take a lifetime to recover from.”
He nodded. “Whenever I see a woman with a scarf on her head, it reminds me of Barbara, and I have to look away.” The color drained from his face, as if all blood had sunk to his feet. “She and I didn’t know how to talk about her illness, as if she’d get better if we ignored it. I watched her fade away, like a melting patch of snow.”
I sat motionless. I wanted to hear his story, but could I bear his tears without breaking down myself?
“The chemo devastated her,” he said, his gaze journeying past me to another place and time. “Her long hair fell out in chunks and collected in the shower drain. Her graying skin became looser each day as she shrank from lack of nourishment. Even as she lay in a coma, I prayed she’d live on. Unable to speak. Unable to eat. But at least alive.” His eyes hollowed, like two caves. “That’s how selfish I was. I should have prayed she’d be released from her pain.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to hold him, rock him as I’d done with Rob when he was little, but I sat like a spectator watching a play
