A. Rich - The Hand That Feeds You

Alfredo asked if we could stay long enough for him to give Cloud a bath. That way, he explained, he could blow-dry Cloud with the dog’s head between my legs and me holding a towel around her head to shield her from the noise of the dryer. I told him that of course we would stay.

He led us into a downstairs bathroom that had been converted into a kind of dog spa. I urged Cloud into the tub and stood back while Alfredo shampooed her. Once her fur was wet and clinging to her body, I could see how much weight she had lost. I rubbed her ears through the towel and thought again about Billie’s having said that I would not run away and start over with my dog. That she would, but I would not. But I no longer believed that anyone could start over. You can continue and grow, but you can’t begin anew. People who believe you can don’t understand the continuum of life.

I didn’t want to see Cloud put into her kennel, as spacious and clean as it was, so we left while Alfredo was brushing her out. I was grateful for this vision of my girl — clean, soft, being cared for by someone who cared. Billie walked ahead of me, out into the muddy yard. The wetlands that bounded the property on one side were the reason they’d got the place at such a good price. That’s what Alfredo had told us. Dogs didn’t care if one side of the seven-acre property was marshy. I was glad we were leaving while it was still light. The view from the heated garage’s window, Cloud’s new view, was wetlands, and she loved the water.

“I got a text from McKenzie,” Billie told me as we got into the car.

“Just now?”

“When he got the photos of Cloud.”

“What did he say?”

“That he can finally put your case to bed.”

Finally? I reached into my tote bag for a Kleenex, just to have something to do to break the thought.

“I should tell him I can’t make it tonight. Could you get my phone out of my bag?”

I reflexively reached for her phone when she asked if I would text him since she was driving. Now I was the go-between.

She dictated, Rain check. Unless you’ll be up late?

“You hungry?” Billie asked.

“I could use a drink.”

“There’s a bar in Danbury, a few miles ahead. We can shoot some pool while we drink.”

Billie drove to an Irish pub, Molly Darcy’s. A drum set and a couple of coffin-size amplifiers were onstage, but it wasn’t yet seven, too early for live music. There was even a dance floor, empty now, but the scuff marks promised it wouldn’t be empty for long. Maybe a dozen customers sat on garnet-red stools facing a soundless soccer match on a flatscreen on the wall. The pool table was free. I ordered two beers while Billie racked up.

She chalked the tip of a cue stick, collected the balls from the trough under the table, and filled the rack. She walked to the far side of the table.

I wondered why Billie was taking the time to shoot pool with me when she could have been meeting up with McKenzie. A choice I would not have made.

I watched her sink two more balls. “You didn’t tell me you were a hustler.” It was less a game than an exhibition as she leaned over to make her shots in such a way that her black tank top gapped and showed her black lace bra.

Billie missed the next shot and handed me the cue.

“I only ever played solids and stripes,” I said, paving the way to a second-rate show of skill. There would be no show of skin with me; I was more than demure in a vintage T-shirt and skinny jeans. I had pulled my hair into a ponytail to reduce interference, but the bangs I had recently cut on a whim fell in my eyes anyway.

“No excuses.”

I sank two balls in corner pockets, then scratched.

Billie dispatched the next four, then reached for the bridge to make a seriously difficult shot — she had to bank off three sides before sinking it. She didn’t waste a motion.

I finished my beer and watched as she cleared the table. “Next round is on me,” I said, conceding defeat, “unless you want to get going.”

“I earned another beer. I’ll rack ’em up again.”

She retrieved the rack and started to fill it. A couple of guys who had been drinking at the bar walked over to the pool table. I didn’t know how long they had been watching.

These guys were just off a construction job, looked like. They wore flannel shirts tucked into loose jeans, scuffed boots, and looked like men — none of that androgynous look you found in Williamsburg. When they saw Billie looking them over, they raised their beers and suggested a bet. Billie took them up on it. When she could have been with McKenzie.

“Come meet our new boyfriends.” Billie waved me over.

I did not appreciate being implicated, but I gave the men a noncommittal “Hey.” I told Billie it had been a long day.

“Why are you being a wet blanket?” Billie reminded me that we were allowed to celebrate the successful transfer of Cloud to her new home.

I wasn’t buying it; this had nothing to do with Cloud.

The tall one asked where she’d learned to shoot pool like that.

“My grandmother. She met my grandfather that way. Hustled him.”

The tall one raised his bottle in salute.

“You want to break?” Billie asked.

“You think I need the advantage?” The tall one looked over at his pal, and I knew the look that passed between them: Was the short one okay to partner up with me, since the tall one had already chosen Billie?

“You okay with me taking this one?” Billie asked me. I didn’t know if she meant the game or the guy. She must have seen me try to parse what she’d asked because she turned to rack up the balls.

Billie took the break, landed a ball, and didn’t miss a single shot after that.

The game, if you could call it that, went so fast that I was spared the job of making conversation with the short one. The tall one took his loss well.

The cover band had started up just before Billie’s win. The tall one put his drink down and took Billie’s hand. The song the band played for their dance was Toby Keith’s “How Do You Like Me Now?!” Not the easiest to dance to, but rousing. I made my excuses to the short one, citing a sudden pulled muscle, and he looked relieved. We slid into a booth and watched his pal and Billie on the dance floor instead.

A couple of couples were attempting a sort of line dance. It was just them and Billie and the tall one on the floor, so we had no trouble holding them in our sights. Everyone knows that a man who can dance walks onto a dance floor unlike a man who cannot. The way the tall one led Billie onto the floor conveyed ownership. That was something to see — Billie allowing herself to be led by a man. She had the confidence to be submissive; it cost her nothing.

To my surprise, Billie could not keep up with the tall one. He led her around the floor in a two-step, but she stepped wrong and laughed. Drawing him to her, she set the pace for the next part of the dance. Slow and suggestive, even when the band finished, and then started in on Miranda Lambert’s “White Liar.” Nicely timed — I sang along in my head, The truth comes out a little at a time.

I let the short one buy me another beer.

Billie and the tall one joined us in the booth when the song ended. The tall one kept his arm around her, until Billie shook it off. His arm went back up to her shoulder, and Billie turned on him: “What do you think you’re doing?” I could see that he thought she was kidding. They had just been dry-humping on the dance floor.

The short one said, “I’m out of here.” He nodded a good-bye to me, then looked expectantly at his friend. It struck me that even he sensed something was off.

The tall one, however, was another matter. He was into her and said, “Play you for another dance.”