Church of the Dog (13 page)

Grandma, Grandpa, and I take communion and return to Mara.

“So if the cracker is Jesus’ body, what is the cheese?” I ask.

“Um . . . the Holy Spirit,” she says with a smile. “It’s all about the Trinity, Daniel.”

“Right,” I say.

Grandpa leans over me. “Psst! Hey, Mara, can I have some of that? I’m hungry, and that communion wine is not so tasty.” Mara hands him the flask and makes him a cheese-and-cracker sandwich. He pops it in his mouth and takes a swig.

Grandma gives him a gentle punch and an embarrassed look.

Church is definitely more fun with Mara. I hold out my hand, and she gives me a cheese-and-cracker sandwich, too.

“To the Holy Spirit,” I say.

“To the Holy Spirit,” she echoes and pops another into her mouth.

You’ll never guess who showed up at my goddamned door today. Tom O’Connor. Yup, Tom O’Connor trying to save my none-of-his-damn-business soul. Word must be spreadin’ or somethin’. He asked me—right to my face, mind you—“Earl, have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your savior?”

“Tom,” I replied, “Jesus and I talk all the time. In fact, He told me you were comin’. He told me to tell you He’s tired of all you know-it-alls preachin’ his teachings like some kind of goddamned used car salesman. He also said God has a special Heaven for y’all for two reasons: One, so you can watch your life over and over and realize how stupid and pompous you were; two, Heaven wouldn’t be Heaven to the rest of us if we had to hang out with obnoxious folk like you.” I shut the door.

You know, as I see it, there are two kinds of folks who act nice. The first kind acts nice because they are nice. The others, though, the others act nice because they’re tryin’ to score God points. Now, I must confess that at times I feel sorry for them, stressin’ out about whether God likes ’em enough, but you know, those folks just really get on my nerves. Seem insincere to me.

Tom tryin’ to save my soul, as if he has some God-like powers, as if he’s better than the rest of us. Tom can blow it out his ass. My redemption is between me and God and no one else.

Mara and I exchange Christmas gifts in the sauna. I give her muslin bags filled with lavender to take with her to her grand-mother’s, and she gives me a bottle of pure rose essential oil. We are two deliciously fragrant women.

The sauna is wonderfully hot and filled with the floral scents. When I shut my eyes, I can imagine it’s actually one of those late afternoons in the summer, right before a thunderstorm when the air is still and humid and you stick to everything, when it’s too hot to move, and all a person can do is sit on the porch swing, drink iced tea, and hope for rain. When I open my eyes, I’m relieved to see snow outside.

“It’s time,” I say.

“That’s a copy,” Mara replies with that spirited smile I love so much.

With that we bolt for the door, dive in the snow, make snow angels, and giggle. Zeus gets really excited, running circles around us, letting out a few barks to match our shrieks and eventually making dog snow angels next to Mara. His barks set off Harvey, who begins to grunt and run back and forth in his pen, seemingly dying to be part of the game. I don’t think I’d want a four-hundred-pound hog making hog snow angels next to me, though.

While we flap our arms and legs, Mara asks, “Edith, what has been your favorite age so far?”

I think about this and laugh a little. I don’t think I could’ve realized when I was Mara’s age that I would feel pretty much the same at my age. Perhaps I live my life with a little more grace now. I don’t have an answer for her. “You know, Mara, every age I’ve ever been has seemed like the perfect age to be.”

She sits up, looks in my eyes, and says, “What a wonderful answer.”

I step out of the shower and crack the door to let some air in. Through the crack I hear Mara ask Earl, “Earl, will you be okay if I go?”

“Oh, sure,” he says.

“Will you be here when I get back?” I bristle.

“I think so,” he answers. “We’ll slop Harvey. He’s kinda growin’ on me.”

“Don’t let the word out,” Daniel says, “but he secretly brings back doggie bags from the café on Saturdays.” Daniel laughs.

“Do you know how much ridicule I’d receive if anyone knew I was bringin’ home treats for the infamous hog? But he sure does get excited about pancakes,” Earl confesses.

Mara laughs.

“Hey, Earl, my Gram’s been visualizing a horse for me. Her visions always manifest. Do you mind if I bring a horse back here from Gram’s?”

“I don’t know what all that ‘visions’ and ‘manifest’ crap you’re talking about is all about, but if you wanna bring back a horse of your own, that’s fine with me.” For a minute he sounds like his old cranky self again, and for a minute I can pretend that my whole world isn’t turning upside down.

“Thanks, Earl,” she says tenderly.

Mara is nearly done packing her pickup. We watch her call her dog up into the cab and figure she is about to take off. The three of us walk out to say good-bye.

“Do you have chains?” Earl asks.

“Yes, sir,” she replies.

“I packed some snacks for the road,” I say and hand her a paper sack.

“Wow! Thanks, Edith,” she says.

She looks Daniel right in the eye and says, “Merry Christmas. ” She hugs me. She says, “Thank you for everything,” as she hugs Earl. Then she gets in her pickup and goes.

I can’t think of the Christmas season at Gram’s house without thinking of Pizza Hut. Gram didn’t really know what to do when I became a vegetarian, so we just ordered pizza from then on so we could each get what we wanted. Tonight, though, Gram and I are going upscale—Cucina Cucina. We eat elephant garlic and focaccia bread and watch people. Gram uses this opportunity to try to find me a boyfriend.

“How about him?” she asks, raising her eyebrows up and down.

“Oh, please, Gram, he’s gay.”

“How do you know?” she challenges.

“Um . . . could it be the way he has his arm around the guy next to him?” I get smart.

“It could be his brother,” she says, defending her point.

“It’s not his brother,” I state firmly.

Then we get quiet to overhear three couples in their late forties joke and tease each other about theme night, which I’m getting clearer involves acting out bedroom fantasies. Overhearing this with my Gram makes me a little uncomfortable.

She leans over and asks me quietly, “Are you listening to this?”

“Yes,” I reply, sounding a little embarrassed.

“That’s the secret to a long and happy marriage.”

You can only imagine the look on my face.

Since driving with Gram is sort of like driving with Mr. Magoo, I am driving, and she gives me directions. Eventually, she guides me into a gravel driveway. A woman comes out of the house and waves at us. I park and we get out.

“Mara, this is Leslie. She’s in my Miracles Group.” Gram meets in a nearby café with a few other women once a week to study
A Course in Miracles
; she calls them her Miracles Group. The café used to be a bar called The Alibi, and Uncle Bob likes to tease her about hanging out at The Alibi.

“Your grandma told us how much you wanted a horse, so we visualized one for you the last few months, and look what showed up!” She gestures toward a chestnut gelding; it is about eighteen hands and has a crescent-moon-shaped mark on his face. I’m guessing he’s a thoroughbred.

“My friends raise race horses. This guy had a little injury on the track that won’t affect him for pleasure purposes but will keep him from winning. Since he’s not good for breeding, they just gave him to me. He’s three, quite hot, but sweet. I don’t think he’s been outside a stable or track much, so you’ll need to help him adjust to new environments.”

“Oh, wow,” I manage to get out in those moments when I can’t seem to get words out of my mouth. “He’s gorgeous!” I’m finally able to say. “Thank you so much!” I walk over to blow up his nose and let him blow up mine.

Grandpa and I sit in recliners watching the national rodeo finals in Las Vegas that he taped for me.

“See that guy?” he struggles to get out. Talking has gotten difficult for him. He points at the screen. “You were better than that guy.”

I know I’m supposed to feel flattered, but I feel guilty and crawl back inside myself.

“I’m sorry I let you down, Grandpa,” I say.

He looks at me a little surprised and says, “Shoot, you didn’t let me down. Probably saved my marriage, that’s what you did.” He goes back to watching the screen.

I think back to my own bull-riding days.

On the ranch I felt invisible, but as I grew older and learned just how much weakness had no place in this world, I felt grateful for being relatively invisible. But there in the safety of whatever county fair arena I happened to be in, I drank up their attention. We all knew how to deal with each other. And there, because of the brutality of the sport, more softness in other areas seemed okay. There, men pray with each other before the event, and older men will pat you on the shoulder and give you fatherly advice. It was a family of sorts, but a safe one, one that didn’t get too close, one where the rules were clear and the topic of conversation was always the same.

It was a relief to me to have an expression for the turmoil I lived with. My life looked so quiet and still to anyone watching, but in the moments when a bull was whipping me around—and I swear I could feel the molecules in my body separate according to atomic weight as if I were in a primitive centrifuge—in those moments, I felt like I was finally being honest about what my inner world was like. And when I’d smack the dirt, only to have the bull run right over my back and the numbness would rush over me . . . in those moments, I felt a sort of relief at finally having my physical reality match the reality in my heart. And when I got up and saw the relieved look on Grandpa Earl’s face, I finally got the acknowledgment for living through hell that I had wanted from him since I was eight.

On the screen we watch a bull rider get tossed off a giant Brahma like a rag doll. The announcer, Donny Gay, a former bull-riding champion, walks us through the slow-motion replay, and when the cowboy hits the dirt, Gay shouts, “Ker-splat!”

Grandpa chuckles and then, without looking at me, says, “I sure do love you, boy.”

At first I can’t believe what I just heard. But he sneaks a look at me out of the corner of his eye, and I say, “I love you, too, Grandpa.”

This is it, I know—my last days with Grandpa—and I can’t waste them. Still, we go back to watching bull riding and pretending like nothing happened. Maybe little moments of truth are enough.

In my dream Emmylou Harris sings “Waltz Across Texas Tonight, ” and Earl shows up in Gram’s backyard to dance with me.

“Now don’t get waltzes confused with the fox-trot like you always do. There’s no quick-quick anywhere. Get it straight, Red.”

“Stop crankin’ at me already!” I reply, smiling. We start dancing. “Hey, what do you think of my new horse?” I gesture at the paddock.

“I think you better get yourself a good ladder and a solid helmet.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” I say without meaning it. “Hey, Earl? How’s everything going?”

“Well, it sure is nice to be out of my body, I can tell you that much. Now why don’t you stop talkin’ for all of two minutes and just enjoy the rest of this dance with me?”

Then we dance and dance and float up into the starry night sky.

“Help me up,” Earl croaks out. When he’s on his feet, he makes raspy noises as he catches his breath. He puts his arms around me. “Sing me ‘The Tennessee Waltz,’ ” he requests tenderly.

I choke back my tears and sing softly as we sort of sway. “Don’t go,” I softly whisper to him, my head on his shoulder where he can’t see my tears, but undoubtedly he feels them soak through his nightshirt. I lift my head to look into his eyes and see an expression that shows his heart is surely breaking. Suddenly, I feel ashamed of my selfishness, my wanting to keep him here despite his pain. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t very fair now, was it?”

He purses his lips together and gently shakes his head, looking at me with empathy. “I won’t be very far behind you.” I try to smile through my tears. He replies by holding my head so that we are cheek to cheek, and I feel his tears mix with mine.

“I’ll be waiting for you there,” he manages to get out.

I open my eyes, stare up at my model airplane suspended by fishing line, and for a brief moment feel disoriented in time. It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas morning! And then I remember that I’m twenty-eight and that my grandfather is dying, and that flash of childhood excitement drains out of me like old motor oil.

I go downstairs and start a fire to warm up the house. The crackle of the fire relieves the deafening silence of the house. I take a tangerine off the mantel and peel it. This Christmas reminds me of the first one without my parents. My grandparents tried to carry on so that I wouldn’t lose faith in Santa, but all of our hearts were as heavy as lead. I believe we all snuck off to our corners many times that day to cry.

There is no doubt all of our hearts will be heavy today, too. It’s our last Christmas together.

I go to the kitchen, put orange juice and Grandma’s cinnamon rolls with the orange zest icing on a tray. I carry the tray up to my grandparents’ door, stop, and listen. I hear voices, so I knock softly and open the door slowly.

“Daniel!” Grandma says. “Merry Christmas!”

“We’re all together,” Grandpa says, choked up.

Oh, God, it’s going to be a hard day, but I’m so glad I’m here. I hug each of them. When Grandma excuses herself to go to the bathroom, Grandpa says, “Get her present, will you? It’s in the pocket of my wool coat.” I find it and bring it to him.