Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"Uh, I'm not a coffee drinker. Does she have any tea?"

"Yes, but it might upset her if you don't drink coffee. I'll fix you a cup with cream and sugar, and you can pretend to sip it."

Mrs. Bartlett left, and I gave the parlor a closer inspection. Unlike my grandmother's home, the house didn't smell musty. The plantation shutters on the tall front windows were open and let in plenty of light. A compact but ornate glass chandelier hung overhead. The fresh flowers in a glass vase on a small round side table were an explosion of color. There was a fireplace in the parlor, and I peeked into the other room to see if it also contained one. Neither grate had been used in a long time. A well-preserved rug with ornate flower designs covered the floor.

My inspection was interrupted by the quick patter of tiny feet on the wooden floor and a sharp bark. Around the corner came a light brown Chihuahua. The dog stopped when it saw me and blinked its oversize eyes. I lowered the back of my hand to the floor as a sniff offering. The dog moved forward cautiously, stopped, and looked over its shoulder.

"Hello, little boy or girl," I said. "I bet you've never met anyone who worked in a chicken plant. I've washed my hands since then so you probably can't smell the chickens."

The dog inched forward and stretched out its head toward the back of my hand. I could hear a low growl in its throat. I kept still, aware that smaller breeds can be quicker to bite than larger ones. The Chihuahua took another step forward and sniffed my hand and fingers. The growl receded. I reached around and scratched the back of the dog's neck. The dog's eyes closed in satisfaction. I could see it was a male.

"What's your name, boy? I bet it's fancy. Sir Galahad would be nice. We have chickens at my house with unusual names."

The dog was wearing a narrow red collar decorated with rhinestones. Still scratching his neck, I repositioned the collar so I could see the dog's name tag. When I saw the engraving, I smiled.

"Flip. I have a dog named Flip, but he lives outside and sleeps in the dirt under the front porch in the summer. Have you ever slept in the dirt? Do you know what dirt looks like?"

I picked up Flip and held him in my lap as I continued to stroke him. I was careful not to let his tiny feet touch the sofa. Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Fairmont returned to the parlor. Mrs. Bartlett was carrying a silver coffee service. Her mother followed with a plate of miniature pastries.

"Careful!" Mrs. Bartlett cried out.

The dog launched himself from my lap. Barking ferociously, he skidded across the floor toward Mrs. Bartlett, who stuck out her left foot to keep him away. The tray tipped to the side. I jumped up and rushed toward her as the tray moved the other way and the coffeepot slid to the edge. Flip, his teeth bared, continued to bark and dance around her feet. Mrs. Fairmont stood motionless with her mouth slightly open.

"Stop it!" Mrs. Bartlett said. "Get away!"

Like a basketball player scrambling for a loose ball, I lunged to the floor and grabbed the wiggling animal with my right hand. But it was too late. Mrs. Bartlett lost control of the tray. The pot flew off, followed by three cups, saucers, the sugar container, and a cream pitcher. The sound of clattering metal and breaking china in the quiet house was deafening.

Mrs. Bartlett swore. The black coffee was pooling across the wooden floor toward the rug. Instinct took over. I grabbed the coffeepot, knelt on the floor, and positioned my dress between the coffee and the rug. I pressed down with my hands in an effort to block the progress of the coffee. The long length of my dress came in handy. "Someone get a washrag or paper towels," I said.

Mrs. Bartlett hurried out of the room. Mrs. Fairmont stared at me and seemed stuck in the moment. I could feel the coffee against my free hand. In spite of my efforts, it was continuing to creep toward the rug. There was nothing else to do. I sat down on the floor between the coffee and the rug. I could feel the hot coffee on my thigh, but it wasn't warm enough to burn me. I looked up at Mrs. Fairmont. Flip calmed down, and I held him in my lap. The old woman put the pastry tray on a chair.

"Get up, child. It's not worth ruining your dress to clean up a spill."

"I couldn't let it ruin the rug. I can wash the dress, but I don't know how you would clean a rug like that."

Mrs. Bartlett returned from the kitchen with washcloths. Flip started barking again. Mrs. Bartlett handed the washcloths to me and quickly backed away. I slipped to my knees and tossed the cloths on the rest of the coffee. The rug was saved.

"I thought you were going to keep that dog in his room," Mrs. Bartlett said, turning toward her mother. "I called and reminded you this morning."

"He must have been in my bedroom," Mrs. Fairmont said apologetically. She looked down at me. "I'm so sorry about your dress."

Mrs. Bartlett turned to me as if just realizing what I'd done. "How courageous of you," she said. "To sacrifice your outfit."

"I'm not sure how courageous it was, Mrs. Bartlett. It was coffee, not a hand grenade."

I stood and moved one of the washcloths across the floor with my foot.

"It's that dog's fault," Mrs. Bartlett said, refocusing on Flip. "This isn't a house for a dog, no matter what you think. Especially a vicious one!"

Mrs. Fairmont, a dazed look in her eyes, stared at Mrs. Bartlett without saying a word. I picked up Flip and could feel a growl in his throat. I rubbed his back.

"Take him away!" Mrs. Bartlett said. "And lock him up in that dog palace you created for him."

Mrs. Fairmont seemed to reconnect with her surroundings.

"If Miss Taylor will carry him, we'll put him in his room."

"Yes ma'am."

I followed Mrs. Fairmont through the foyer.

"I'll call Gracie and have her come right over and clean up this mess," Mrs. Bartlett called after us. "She doesn't have a regular house to clean on Saturday, does she?"

"I can take care of it," I said over my shoulder. "Find the broom and a dustpan."

I patted Flip on the head and whispered in his ear. "I understand. You're just protecting your territory like your wolf ancestors."

"I HAVE A PLACE FOR FLIP IN THE BASEMENT," MRS. FAIRMONT SAID.

We walked down a short hallway past a paneled room that looked like a den or study. Bookshelves lined the walls on either side of a large television. Mrs. Fairmont turned and faced me.

"I keep Flip with me all the time," she said in a soft voice. "He even sleeps on my bed, although Christine doesn't know it. We'll take him downstairs, but it would be cruel to leave him there all the time. Does your family have a dog? Living on a farm like that, I'd expect you to have a dog."

"Yes ma'am. We have two dogs; one is named Flip."

"Really! What breed?"

"Mixed. Our Flip probably weighs about fifty pounds."

"My baby weighs six pounds, four ounces."

We went down to the basement. Light streamed in from the windows I'd seen from the front of the house. Mrs. Fairmont's home was three stories in the rear and opened onto a courtyard/garden. Windows lined the wall and let in light and the view. A wall ran down the center of the room. To the left was an open space used for storage. Mrs. Fairmont opened a door to the right, and we entered a suite with a kitchenette. A dog bed surrounded by chew toys lay in the middle of the floor. There wasn't any other furniture.

"Was this was one of the rooms for rent?"

"Yes. It's really a little apartment. No one has lived here since I bought the house. It's what they call a garden apartment."