Triptych

CHAPTER FORTY

Will was listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Devils amp; Dust as he brushed the dog. He wasn’t certain why his neighbor had insisted on the brushing. Betty’s fur was short. She didn’t shed much. Will had to assume the origin of the task was somehow connected to the little dog’s pure pleasure in the sensation; however, the neighbor had never struck him as particularly interested in the animal’s comfort.

Not that he was assigning a personality to the thing, but there was no denying she liked a good brush.

The doorbell rang and Will stopped mid-stroke. It rang again, and then there was a staccato of knocking.

Will sighed. He put down the brush and rolled down the sleeves of his shirt. He scooped up Betty in his hand and walked to the door.

“What the fuck took you so long?”

“I assumed it was you.”

Angie grimaced, which was hard considering her face was still healing. She had butterfly bandages on her forehead and her cheek had turned from black to yellow. Band-Aids on each of her fingers covered more sutures. A neon pink plastic cast was wrapped around her right arm, metal bolts sticking out around her wrist where the bones had been screwed back together.

He looked over her shoulder and saw her car parked in the street. “Did you drive here?”

“Arrest me.”

“Why?” he asked. “Do I need to lock you up so you won’t skip town?”

“Not this time.”

“You’re not leaving me for John?”

She laughed. “He’s already had half of his life fucked up by some asshole. I figured I’d let him live the other half in peace.”

“You didn’t sleep with him?”

“Of course I slept with him.”

Will’s chest fell, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. “Do you want to come in?”

“Let’s stay out here,” she suggested, awkwardly bending down to sit on the porch.

Reluctantly, Will joined her. He kept the dog close to his chest, and Betty tucked her head down, her snout dipping inside his vest.

“It’s Saturday,” Angie told him. “Why are you wearing that suit?”

“It’s a good look for me.”

She bumped her shoulder into his, teasing, “You think?”

He tried to make a joke of it. “You know, I’m not wearing any underwear.”

She gave a deep, bawdy laugh.

He smiled, relishing the ease between them. “How come it’s sexy when you say it, but not when I do?”

“Because the type of man who doesn’t wear underwear usually hangs around playgrounds with lots of candy in his pockets.”

“I’ve got candy in my pockets,” he told her. “You want to put your hand in and see?”

She laughed again. “You are all talk, Mr. Trent. All talk.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “You’re probably right.”

They both stared out at the street. Traffic noise from Ponce de Leon followed the breeze; car horns blaring, people shouting. Will heard wind chimes clanging in the distance, and a bicyclist rode by the house.

“I love you,” Angie said, very quietly.

Betty stirred. He felt a flutter in his chest. “I know.”

“You’re my life. You’ve always been there.”

“I’m still here.”

She gave a heavy sigh. “I talked to you when I was in the cellar. Before you came.” She paused, and he knew she was thinking back to that awful place. “I promised you that I would leave you if I got out of there alive.”

“I’ve never expected you to keep your promises.”

She was quiet again. Another cyclist rode by, the metallic whiz of the turning wheels sounding like a field of grasshoppers. Will thought about putting his arm around her shoulders, then remembered the gash from the glass. He was about to put his arm around her waist instead when she turned to him.

“I’m really bad for you.”

“Lots of things are bad for me.” He listed some examples. “Chocolate. Artificial sweetener. Secondhand smoke.”

“Passion,” she said, holding her fist to her heart. “I want you to have passion, Will. I want you to know what it’s like to fall in love with somebody, to stay awake at night thinking you’re going to die if you don’t have them.”

All he could say was, “I’ve stayed awake plenty of nights thinking about you.”

“Worrying about me,” she corrected. “I’m not an old pair of shoes you can wear for the rest of your life just because they’re comfortable-Will didn’t know that there was anything wrong about being comfortable, but he held his tongue on the subject, asking instead, ”Where am I going to find another woman with your low standards?“

“Isn’t Amanda Wagner available?”

“Oh,” he groaned. “That’s just hurtful.”

“You deserve it, you illiterate shit.”

He laughed, and Betty stirred.

“God, that thing is ugly.” She patted Will’s leg. “Help me up.”

Will hooked his hand under her good arm to help her stand. “Where are you going?”

“To look through the want ads.” She indicated her broken wrist, her torn hands. “I’m not going to sit behind a desk for the next twenty years and even the city of Atlanta isn’t desperate enough to give me a gun.” She shrugged. “Besides, it’d be nice to find a job where I don’t have to dress like a whore unless I want to.”

“You don’t really need a job,” he offered.

She barked a surprised laugh. “You jackass. Do you really think I’m going to stay at home cooking and cleaning while you go to work?” “Worse things could happen.” “I doubt it.”

“Betty could use a mother.” “She could use a plastic bag over her head.”

Quickly, Angie stood on her toes and pressed her mouth to his neck. Her lips were soft against his skin. He could feel her warm breath, the soft tips of her fingers pressing into his shoulders.

She said, “I love you.”

He watched her walk down his driveway, the pink cast held out at her side. She turned around once to wave at him, then got into the car and pulled away.

She was almost proud of the cuts that riddled her face and hands. It was as if she had finally found a way to show on the outside what she’d been feeling on the inside all along. He had not asked her about what happened in that cellar, had not wanted to look too closely at the angle of Michael’s wounds or count the number of times the man had been stabbed. Will had just wanted to hold her, to lift her up in his arms and carry her up the stairs and keep her safe for as long as he could.

And for at least a couple of hours, she had let him.

Will wasn’t sure how long he stood there looking into the empty street. The Boss was singing “Leah” and Betty was snoring against his chest when a tan Chevy Nova pulled into his neighbor’s driveway.

Betty woke up when the car door slammed.

Will walked across his yard toward the woman, who was hammering a wooden stake into the ground with the heel of her shoe.

He asked, “Can I help you?”

She startled, putting her hand to her throat. “God, you scared me to death.”

“I’m Will Trent.” He indicated his house. “I live next door.”

She was looking at the dog, her lip curled in distaste. “I thought Mother said that thing was dead.”

“Betty?”

“Yes, Betty. We moved her to a home.”

Will felt his brow furrow. “I’m sorry?”

“Betty, my mother.” The woman was impatient; she clearly didn’t want to be here and she sure as hell didn’t want to explain herself to Will. “She’s living in a home now. We’re selling the house.”

“But,” Will tried, “I heard her…” He looked down at the dog. “At night sometimes,” he began. “She-your mother-would yell at someone she called Betty.”

“She was yelling at herself, Mr. Trent. Did you never notice that my mother is nutty as a fruitcake?”

He thought about the midnight yelling, the way she would sometimes spontaneously burst into show tunes while watering the plastic plants on her front porch. These things had not struck Will as particularly odd, especially considering the eccentricities of the neighborhood. It was hard to stick out on a street that had six hippies living in a one-bedroom, rainbow-colored house; an abandoned Weiner Mobile up on blocks in front of a Mennonite church; and a six-foot-four functional illiterate who walked a toy dog on a hot pink leash.

The woman had a staple gun, which she used to attach what looked like a homemade For Sale By Owner sign to the wooden stake. “There,” she said. “That should do it.” She turned back to Will. “Somebody will come by in a day or so to clear out the house.”

“Oh.”

She slid her shoe back on, then threw the stapler into her car.

“Wait,” Will said.

She got in her car anyway, rolling down the window as she cranked the engine. “What is it?”

“The dog,” he said, holding up Betty-if, indeed, that was her real name. “What should I do with her?”

“I don’t care,” she answered, her lip curling up again as she looked at the dog. “Mother couldn’t stand the little rat.”

“She told me to brush it,” he said, as if this would alter her memory.

“She probably said to flush it.”

“But-”

The woman turned shrill. “Oh, for the love of God, just take her to the pound!”

She glanced over her shoulder then backed straight out of the driveway, nearly running over a passing jogger. Both men watched as the car careened into the street, sideswiping Will’s trashcan.

The jogger smiled at Will, asking, “Bad day?”

“Yeah.” Will wasn’t as polite as he should have been, but he had bigger issues to deal with at the moment.

He looked down at Betty. She leaned her head against his chest, her bug eyes half-closed in ecstasy, tongue lolled to the side, as she stared back up at him. If she had been a cat, she would have purred.

“Crap,” he muttered, heading back toward his house.

He remembered what the woman had said, could still hear her screeching voice ringing in his ears. Inside, he put Betty down and she skittered across the floor, jumped on the couch and settled in on her usual cushion.

Will closed the front door with a heavy sigh. A man who has grown up in an orphanage cannot take a dog to the pound.

Even if it is a Chihuahua.