Cote Smith - Hurt People

I put the picture back and rummaged some more. There were more pictures of the man, of Sandy. In one photo Sandy was at a Halloween party, dressed in all yellow with a large hat that matched. In Sandy’s arms was a crying baby dressed as a monkey, who seemed upset that someone had taken away its pacifier and given it a toy banana. Sandy’s lips were pouted like she wanted to kiss the baby, or maybe she was shooshing it to be quiet. At the bottom of the box there was nothing but empty picture frames, a dusty rattle.

Steamboat met me at the door when I came back in. My mother’s wineglass was almost empty, and Sandy’s drink had gone from purple to clear.

“I know he’s trying real hard,” my mother said.

Sandy nodded. “And it doesn’t bother you? What they say in the papers?”

My mother picked up her glass. “No, it doesn’t,” she said. “The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on.”

Another one of her sayings. She once told me the same thing when I complained about my brother’s name-calling. There are always going to be mean people out there, people with bad hearts who mean you no good. I’m not saying your brother is one of them, but don’t let what they say bother you. The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on .

But whenever she said that to me, all I could think about was the dogs being left behind.

“That’s good,” Sandy said. She poured my mother a refill from the box.

“I mean, I know it’s the city’s reputation, blah blah blah. But when it comes to that stuff, he always seems to come through.” She stared into her glass of wine, as if it were a crystal ball and something would soon be revealed.

My mother sniffled, wiped her eyes.

“You know, it’s funny. When I first moved here, I read about how Kansas was the worst allergy state in the country, made people absolutely miserable. But I never had a problem, not until we got that dog.” Steamboat tilted his head, as if he knew my mother was talking about his kind.

“Well, don’t worry, he’ll catch him,” Sandy said. “Sometimes it takes a day, sometimes longer, but they always catch them.” My mother nodded. There were a few seconds of silence as Sandy held her glass in the air, suspended in thought. Finally she said, “I mean, where is there to go, really? Where can anyone go?”

My mother took a long gulp. “Nowhere comes to mind.”

Sandy shifted in her seat and she put her hand over my mother’s. “What I mean, sweetie, is there’s no sense worrying about things you can’t do a thing about.”

“Yes,” my mother said. “I know what you mean. You tell yourself not to worry, about money, prisoners, but it’s always there. Hanging in the back of your mind when you lock the doors at night. It has a way of finding you.”

“Like tornado season,” Sandy said. “Like a tornado watch.”

“Exactly,” my mother said, taking another drink. “Except with kids, the watch is endless.”

“Yes,” Sandy said, “well.”

She looked at her refrigerator. There were a lot of magnets, but no pictures or notes. Her eyes fell and she twirled the stem of her wineglass between her thumb and pointer finger.

“Remember when you guys first came to town,” Sandy said, “and there was that newspaper article. About that baby. They had your picture and everything.” She paused, her gaze drifting upward, as if what she was picturing were written on the ceiling. “You sure looked beautiful. I remember that’s all people talked about. How you were the most beautiful woman this city’s seen.”

“Right,” my mother laughed.

“And that summer dress. Whatever happened to that dress?”

“Sold it,” my mother said. “Last month when bills were due.”

“Oh,” Sandy said. “Sorry.” She pinched the corner of the plastic tablecloth and made some joke about the golf course’s wages. “What was it the baby was choking on?”

“A rubber nipple. It chewed the tip off and got it lodged in its throat.”

“That’s right. CPR on a baby.” Sandy shook her head. “Your husband, the hero.”

“Sandy,” my mother said. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

Sandy poured another refill. This time she left the box on the table. “Well, sometimes I think it’s best to discuss the worst.” She swirled her wine around, making a tiny tornado. “At least, when you’re among friends.”

“Sure,” my mother said, but under the table, where Sandy couldn’t see, her feet were fidgeting. She drank more wine.

“But,” Sandy said, “it doesn’t have to be all gloom and doom. Let’s talk about your new beau. Tell me what’s it like, because I’ve got to tell you, I never would have figured you two.”

Steamboat stretched out on the floor and groaned.

“Oh, I don’t want to talk about that,” my mother said.

“Well, he seems to be making you happy,” Sandy said. “Isn’t he? Are you happy?” I felt my mother look at me, so I acted like I wasn’t listening. I lay down parallel to Steamboat and pretended we were having a conversation. I asked him if he’d ever seen a tornado, and could he believe this weather.

“I don’t know,” my mother whispered. “He’s been such a help. The rides to work. Watching the kids at the course. And he really is a gentleman when he wants to be.” Sandy didn’t say anything. “Look, I know it could go either way. But if I’m wrong, I’m wrong. The way I see it, I deserve to be wrong. Everyone else gets to be wrong, why not me?”

“I don’t know, honey,” Sandy said. “But I can tell you from experience, being wrong is overrated.”

The room went quiet, and I felt for sure I had missed an important gesture or look, up above.

“Yes, well, it’s my decision to make, isn’t it,” my mother said. “No one else’s.”

“No, I guess not,” Sandy said. “More wine?”

They drank a little more, and Sandy changed the subject back to my dad. Where did he fit in the picture? she wanted to know. What was his outlook like? My mother sighed, put her hand to her head, massaging her temple. She didn’t know, she said, and looked at me again. This time I asked Steamboat what his plans were for tomorrow. If the weather was right, how did he feel about a walk? Steamboat’s ear perked up, and my mother resumed her talk.

She didn’t know about my dad, my mother said. She wished she did. She took another sip. She said the worst was — it was this moment. There was a time, right after we learned I was, you know. Again. We were both lying in bed, watching some bad movie he rented, and I said, I don’t know why, that maybe I shouldn’t … see it through. It was something I’d been sort of thinking about for a while. I mean, we were living in a nice-enough house, but we had no money. So I started to think, about where we were headed, what our future looked like, and what I saw was us barely getting by for the rest of our lives. I saw myself never going back to school, staying in this city, in that house forever. As soon as I said it, though, I knew I could never go through with it. The words, they left this terrible taste. Still, they were already out there, waiting for a response. He paused the movie, sat up, and looked at me. He put his hand on my stomach and told me absolutely not, that I’d regret it for the rest of my life. And those were the right words, and he said them the right way, but something was wrong. I could tell he’d thought about it before. I could tell he was imagining it now. A life without … restrictions. In his mind he’d written an entirely different story for himself, one in which he could be anything, go anywhere, where the decisions he made didn’t follow him around every day, nipping at his heels. I knew then he was ready to escape.

The room went silent. Under the table every leg was still. Steamboat got up, licked his chops. He stretched his back legs and went over to his empty dog bowl. He whined.