April & Oliver (30 page)

“Bernadette, I’m not finished.”

She sighs, gazing at him, her eyes sad and frustrated. “Let go of it, Oliver.” She kisses him lightly, her hand on his cheek.
“Go scramble some eggs,” she says. “You need to shut off your brain.”

T
HE COFFEE SHOP
is a few blocks from April’s apartment. Eight o’clock on a Saturday morning doesn’t seem like her usual style. He was the
one who asked to meet; she chose the place and time. Oliver is early. He stares into the enormous fish tank in the storefront.
Calico koi with impressive whiskers scour the gravel for morsels. He’s seen this place before, but when?

After standing outside for a few minutes, he glances in to see that she is already there, sitting alone in a booth with what
looks like an untouched cup of coffee. He slides in across from her. She’s wearing sunglasses.

“Hey, there,” she says, her fingers fidgeting with a sugar package. “I didn’t order you anything. I don’t know what you drink.”
There’s an edge to her voice. It’s unlike her to show nervousness.

“Just coffee,” he tells the waitress.

She glances around the shop. “This place never changes,” she says. “Same wallpaper, same waitress.”

“You’re a regular, then?”

“Used to be.” She looks out the window.

“Look,” he says finally. “I’m sorry about . . .”

“You were drunk. Let’s forget it happened.”

“Right,” he says quickly.

The waitress, a blue-haired woman with basset hound eyes, raises her brows as she sets down his coffee. He waits for her to
step away before he continues.

“Look, I think you need to let me make a real apology. What I did was completely—”

“Excuse me, but I think I did as much to you as you did to me.”

“Whatever you did back, I deserved.”

“Oliver, I know you’re hard on yourself, but what you think you tried to do, and what you actually tried to do, are not the
same thing.”

“You’re making excuses for me.”

“I’d be happiest if we could just let this go. Besides, I liked the rowboat.”

“I liked that, too,” he says quietly.

April goes back to the sugar package, turning it edge-to-edge on the tabletop. “So, are we done?” she asks.

He considers this for a moment. “No, I don’t think so,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.” He pushes away the coffee. “Let’s
go for a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“What’s the harm?”

“Where to?” she says skeptically.

“Let’s do something impractical,” he says. “Let’s look at dogs in the dog pound.”

“That’s insane.”

“Exactly,” he says, reaching for the check.

The pound smells of urine and bleach. The sound of barking is deafening.

“I’m not getting a dog,” she says.

“Be open-minded. Think of the protection.”

“What about protection from my landlord? He’d kill me.”

“You’re planning to move anyway, right?”

“Let’s get out of here. It’s too depressing.”

“How about this cutie?” he says. A Doberman mix with ears like spears barks at them shrilly. Its tail wags furiously, but
April walks away, glancing into the other cages.

“I live in an apartment. I work crazy hours. A dog isn’t an option.”

“So, we’re window-shopping. How about this one?” He points to a rottweiler who bares his teeth. “Well, maybe not.”

April keeps walking. “I don’t even like dogs. Pets were Buddy’s thing.” She bends down beside the cage of the straggliest,
most sorry-looking dog Oliver has ever seen.

“What about this one back here,” Oliver calls. “Looks like a purebred chocolate Lab.”

April ignores him. She is talking through the bars to the mutt. One of his ears stands precariously upright while the other,
torn, hangs down. Dark and wiry, it’s impossible to say what combination of breeds he could be. His thin tail wraps between
his legs. He doesn’t approach the bars while April talks to him sweetly. “You see that?” Oliver says. “His body language is
not good.”

“I hear him,” April says. “He’s saying, ‘Why the hell should I trust you?’ And given his circumstances, isn’t he right?” She
puts her hand tentatively through the bars.

“No reaching in,” says the attendant, a potbellied man wearing earplugs.

April pretends not to hear, which isn’t hard to do given the volume. This dog appears to be the only one not barking. He dips
his head, sniffs cautiously, and takes a tiny step toward April. She looks up at Oliver and smiles at this achievement.

“How old is he?” Oliver asks the attendant. “He looks ancient.”

“Anyone’s guess,” says the man.

“Is he healthy?” Oliver asks skeptically. “What’s with the bald spots?”

“Look,” says the man. “It’s forty bucks to adopt. The rest you find out from a vet.”

“We’ll come back another day,” Oliver says.

“He’s not going to be here tomorrow,” the man says. “His three weeks are up. No one’s claimed him, and we have a slew of puppies
sitting in crates in the lobby. If you don’t believe me, take a look yourself.”

“You mean he’s going to be put down?” April says.

“We can’t save them all, lady. That’s just how it goes.”

“I’ll take him,” she says.

“You’ll have to fill out an application. You got a fenced yard?”

“I’ll be moving in with my grandmother soon. She’s got one.”

“Hold on, April,” Oliver says. “I thought we were window-shopping.”

“You’re right. I could use the protection.”

“There are always ads in the paper. I saw one recently for schnauzer pups.”

“You heard what the guy said.”

“April, that’s a ploy. He just wants to unload the dog.”

“Sure, so he can free up the kennel for a more adoptable one. What’s wrong with that?” She heads to the office with her wallet
in hand.

Oliver follows her. “Look, April. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. If you ask me, this dog is dubious.”

“Fine, then I’ll call him Dubious.”

“You’re not planning to bring him home right now, are you? We don’t even have a leash.”

“You’re right,” she says, handing him a twenty. “Go find one for me. And some dog food, too. I’ll meet you outside.”

The dog is no more than thirty pounds, but he hauls April all the way down the street to her apartment.

“Well,” says Oliver. “So much for leash manners.”

“He’ll learn.”

“It looks like he’s training you.”

“It’s only the first day.”

“What about a bath? What if he has fleas?”

“Right,” she says, opening her wallet again. “Run back and buy some soap.”

When they reach April’s building, the mongrel stops dead at the bottom of the stairs. “Let’s go,” April says, preceding him.
The dog splays out, petrified.

“Never seen stairs?” Oliver asks.

“Open the dog food,” she says. They place one piece of kibble on each step. The dog cranes his neck and gets the first three
easily. He takes a step for the fourth, another for the fifth, and once he realizes he is on the steps, he makes a reckless
dash to the top. Upon reaching the landing, he pees in terror. Oliver covers his eyes.

“I’ll grab some paper towels,” April says. “You carry him the rest of the way up.”

Oliver carries the squirming dog into April’s apartment and directly into the bathtub. Panicked, the dog flies out at once.
They shut the door in time. April kicks off her sandals and stands in the tub. “Come on, Dubious,” she says, turning on the
tap. “It’s fun.”

Somehow the dog manages to squeeze himself behind the toilet bowl.

“I can already see what a great watchdog he’s going to be,” Oliver says.

“He doesn’t have to earn his keep,” April says. “He’s a family member now.”

“Great,” Oliver says.

Within ten minutes, April and Oliver are soaked, while the dog, giving one more shake, appears basically dry. After another
ten minutes he is lathered and foamy, appearing skinny beneath his flattened coat. He hangs his head, trembling and showing
the whites of his eyes.

“He thinks we’re trying to kill him,” Oliver says. He holds the collar while April rinses with a three-quart pot.

“I knew these pots and pans would come in handy one day.” She smiles. When they finish, there is a gritty ring about the tub.
Oliver spits dog hair out of his mouth. April towels off the dog, who is no longer gray but tan with black markings. “Very
handsome,” she announces. “And younger than we thought. Look at those white teeth.”

“April,” Oliver says carefully. She is bending down in the tub, scooping mucky hair out of the drain. “I know I led you into
this, but sometimes it’s best to recognize early when something is a mistake.”

She glances up at him. He is standing over her with his hands on his hips. “Is that what you do?” she asks.

He hesitates. “Sure, I make mistakes.”

“I mean the recognition part.” She stands in front of him now in the tiny bathroom, hands on her hips in a mirror image of
him. Her face looks flushed and overheated. Even her hair is wet. The whimpering dog makes figure eights around their feet.
“Three hours with me on a Saturday morning. Surely you have better things to do.”

He doesn’t know what to say.

She opens the bathroom door. The dog bolts. The cool air clearly feels good on his skin. “Look at how smart he is,” April
says, observing the dog at the front door. “He’s telling us he wants to go out.”

“That, or he never wants to see us again.”

April gets the leash but Oliver pauses in front of the coffee table to see what she’s checked out of the library:
An Interrupted Life
by Etty Hillesum and
A Brief History of Time
by Stephen Hawking. “Giving it another go?” Oliver asks, holding up the Hawking.

“I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“Forget string theory,” he says, putting down the book. “What you need is
Dog Training 101.
”

The dog has no trouble going downstairs. He nearly pulls April down the stairwell. He looks clean now, though April and Oliver
are damp and bedraggled.

“He’ll need a lot of exercise, you know. Not to mention obedience classes, shots. These things add up.”

She eyes him. “Don’t you have somewhere to be by now?” They walk for more than a mile before finally stretching out on a park
bench, letting themselves dry in the sun. The dog curls up in the shade beneath the bench, panting.

“He needs water,” she says.

“He’s scared out of his wits,” Oliver answers. “Probably longing for his cage in the pound.”

“He’ll be fine after a few weeks.”

“Let me help you with the vet bill,” he says. “Since this was my harebrained idea.”

“It’s not joint custody.” She smiles. “I’ll be fine.”

He bends over to pat the dog between their legs. “Hey, Dubious,” he says gently. The dog leans toward his caressing hand.
“I wonder what happened to his ear,” Oliver says.

“They all have scars. His just happens to be visible,” she says. “Now you’d better get to wherever you’re going.”

“Right,” he says. He leans over and kisses her cheek carefully. She smells like flea soap and strawberries. She blushes, glancing
away.

“You’re not going directly to Bernadette’s, are you?” she asks as he stands.

“Why?”

“You smell like a wet dog.”

“Well, you’re no perfume princess yourself.”

“Beat it,” she says.

He turns to leave.

“Hey, Oliver,” she calls.

He looks back.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Right,” he says. “See you around.”

T
HE CUBICLE IS POORLY LIT
with a fluorescent bulb that whines and flickers. Unopened books cover the battered desktop. The stacks are strangely silent,
the basement air fusty and inert. Oliver can’t concentrate.

He thinks of Bernadette, her silken hair, her easy smile. Oliver was smitten with her from the instant he met her. He loved
her confident laugh, her melodic voice, and the soft look in her eye when she applauded a child’s scribbles. He’d never known
a more good-hearted person.

The library is without windows. He wonders if the sun has set. If he pays attention, he can hear the dull drone of the city
outside: traffic grinding, street vendors mongering, sidewalks straining under the weight of pedestrians. The trees in Washington
Square Park have begun to turn, but just barely, the deep summer green yielding to an amber tinge. Oliver has always thought
autumn New York’s best season, with its crisp air and splashes of color, but this year it feels like a harbinger.

In the three weeks since Labor Day, Oliver has spent long hours in the library doing little. He tries to work, but his mind
does not engage. He has attempted to tell Bernadette what happened, or rather almost happened, at the beach house, but each
time the conversation takes a turn, and he never gets it out.

As Bernadette makes plans for the wedding, Oliver looks for signs of anxiety in her, but sees none. She smiles not in the
giddy, exuberant way he might expect of a bride, but sagaciously, like someone celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of
a strong, weathered marriage.