Protecting Marie (14 page)

“It's kind of sad, too,” Fanny offered, fiddling with a pine needle. “The end.”

“What do you mean, the end? It's January first—
the
beginning.”

Fanny shrugged and smiled vaguely. She sniffed her fingers; they smelled like a forest. It was the beginning, all right, the beginning of new things to worry about. Namely the boy in the red cap and Stuart Walker's comment about taking Dinner. (Fanny could do without
anyone
giving Henry ideas about how or where to get rid of her dog.) And then, of course, there was Henry's artwork to worry about. “Should we call him for lunch?” Fanny asked. Her eyes lifted in the direction of Henry's studio.

“Why don't we leave him alone? He'll come down when he's ready. With any luck, he's painting—and something's clicked.”

“Will he have enough work for the show in New York?”

“Let's hope so,” said Ellen. She shoved an ornament hanger under the couch with her foot. “Let's hope so.”

Before Henry had gone up to his studio to paint, he had seemed hopeful, the promise of a breakthrough shining in his eyes. He patiently brewed a pot of coffee, poured it into his red-
and-black-plaid thermos bottle, hooked the most ample mug they owned on his finger, and pecked both Ellen and Fanny on the head. “It's now or never,” he had said.

“No,” Ellen had remarked. “Either it will work or it won't. If it doesn't today, it will soon. Right?”

Henry didn't answer. He picked up the thermos bottle with his free hand and pivoted to leave. At the door, he turned back and arched one of his wiry eyebrows.

Somehow—despite the glimmer of hope she had sensed in him—it came as little surprise to Fanny that when Henry burst into the kitchen hours later he was in a black mood. Even when she
did
anticipate one of his moods, it didn't make negotiating it any easier.

Ellen and Fanny were discussing what to make for supper when the swinging door flew open. The thermos bottle landed securely on the counter with a smack. Fanny jumped. Dinner had been curled up in the corner; she jumped, too.

“I can't paint anymore,” Henry said darkly, shaking his head. “Nothing's working.” The mug was still in his hand. For a second, Fanny thought he was going to throw it. He placed it solidly on the counter next to the thermos bottle with enough force to call added attention to himself, but carefully enough so as not to break it.

“Do you want me to look at what you've done so far?” Ellen asked calmly, directing her eyes to Henry, her fingers still riffling through the pages of a cookbook.

“There's nothing to look at.” Henry opened and closed the cupboard he was standing beside. Open-close, open-close, open-close.

Ellen shut the cookbook. “Are you sure?”

Open-close, open-close, open-close. Henry sighed, a sigh so great that when he breathed in he seemed to be inflating like a balloon, his chest swelling, shoulders rising, the wings of his nostrils expanding. He scooped the mug off the counter, scowled at it, and walked over to the sink.

My mother is brave, Fanny thought. In
situations like this, it was a struggle for Fanny to look at her father squarely. But her mother did. Fanny only managed to get as close as a wrinkle on his forehead or the top button on his shirt. She felt herself turning into a shadow. Because Fanny was looking at her mother looking at her father, she heard the noise first, then realized what it was: the clatter of Dinner's bowl and the
snap-rap-tap
of kibbles avalanching across the floor.

Henry accidentally had stepped on Dinner's metal food dish. “Damn it!” he roared.

Due to the commotion, Dinner shot up and circled the kitchen, her ears plastered back on her head.

“Henry—” said Ellen.

Fanny saw her mother hold out the dustpan to her father, but she snatched it before Henry could. “I'll do it,” she said briskly.

Henry pressed his hands to his face. “I'm going for a walk,” he grumbled. Kibbles crunched under his shoes. “Dog!” he said before the front door slammed.

Dinner retreated to the corner. Remaining
silent, Ellen plucked another cookbook from the shelf, opened it. On her knees, Fanny cleaned up the kibbles. Some had ended up in Dinner's water dish. Already they were saturated, breaking apart—miniature fireworks exploding in a dish on the kitchen floor in a warm old house on a cold first day of the year.

The refrigerator clicked on.
Hummmmmmm.
The hum grew louder and louder in Fanny's ears until the sound seemed to originate in her head. Like a chorus it sang:
Hummm-ummm. Himmm-immm. Him.
Him. My father. He's everywhere, she thought. She stood to turn on the transistor radio that was kept by the canisters of flour and sugar and salt.

That same afternoon, Mary Dibble came home. When the telephone rang, Fanny knew, just knew, that it was Mary.

“I've still got my jacket on,” said Mary. “I called you first thing.”

“May I come over?” Fanny asked.

“Meet me halfway.”

“Okay. Leave in five minutes,” Fanny told her. Enough time for Fanny to ask permission, brush her hair, dress for outside, get Dinner's leash and ball.

“One, two, three . . . bye!”

“Bye.”

Fanny and Dinner met Mary at the corner of Willard Street and Hamilton Avenue, exactly midway between their houses. A faint smudge of light still hung above the trees. Fanny had been running in fits and starts, so she was out of breath and her cheeks were ruddy.

“Hi!” Fanny called from two houses away, waving her scarf.

When they were face-to-face, Mary gasped, “Forget hello! Whose dog?” Her eyes were the size of nickels.

“Mine.”

“Yours?”

Fanny nodded slowly and smiled broadly, her teeth showing like two rows of tiny porcelain heads that were nodding and smiling, too. “Her name is Dinner.”

“That's cute,” said Mary. “Well? Who, what, where, when, why?”

“My dad gave her to me.”

“No way. I can't believe it.”

“I can barely believe it, either.”

Mary bent down to pet Dinner, allowing their noses to touch. “Cold and wet,” she said, giggling. “Do you think he did it to make up for missing his party?”

“Partially, I guess. It's complicated.”

“Well, who cares why? You, Fanny Swann, have got a dog,” declared Mary. “The one thing you wanted most in the whole wide world.”

“Ta da,” said Fanny, curtsying to Dinner.

They laughed.

“Hey,” said Fanny, “your face is tan. Nice.”

“It's okay.”

Fanny pushed her hat up to the top of her head and pulled her scarf down so that her earrings showed. She tapped one lightly with her index finger. “Remember these?”

Mary flipped her long, curly hair back behind her ears to reveal her earrings. “I've worn
them every day since I opened them.” Mary threw her arm around Fanny's shoulder. “I'm not used to this cold weather. I'm sort of a Floridian now. My toes are freezing off. And my fingers and my cheeks and my nose. Let's go get warm. And you have to tell me everything.”

They started walking toward the Dibbles' house, matching their strides (left boot, right boot, left boot, right boot) with an attempt at a bit of fancy footwork (hop, skip, skip) like Dorothy and the Scarecrow thrown in for good measure.

If the Swanns had just arrived home from a long trip, Henry wouldn't have permitted anyone to come over, even Mary. The Dibbles were different. Their house was in a constant state of amiable chaos, a steady stream of comings and goings, doors slamming, phones ringing, dogs barking, cats chattering, televisions blabbing, stereos playing, yelling, discussing, kitchen sounds, bathroom sounds, the sounds of a large family. Mary had two par
ents, four brothers, and one sister. Michael and Rose were in college, but they often came by for meals or to borrow something. Billy, Tom, Mary, and Joey were still at home. Whenever she was there, Fanny observed with envy that no child seemed to be the focus, and that because there was so much happening at once, if you wanted to disappear for a while you could. No one would notice.

After making hot chocolate (with vanilla and lots of miniature marshmallows), Fanny and Mary took turns recapping their lives, starting from the minute they had separated when Mary's family left for the airport. One would speak and the other would listen in rapt silence. Then there would be questions. Then they would switch roles. Meanwhile, Dinner romped in the backyard with the Dibbles' dogs, Elmira and Lefty.

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.

Fanny told Mary everything she could think of, everything she could put into words. Mary lightened Fanny's concern about Henry's episode earlier that day.

“So he's mad about his painting and he steps in the dog dish? It wasn't Dinner's fault.
She
didn't step in the dog dish. It's not like she's a puppy and she's ruining stuff around the house. You know, like Nellie.”

Fanny even told Mary about the boy in the red cap.

“Fanny!” Mary squealed. “If someone wanted their dog back, they would come to your house, knock on your door, and ask for their dog back. If anything,” she said, her voice hushed and dramatic, “old Red Cap is probably madly in love with you and it has nothing to do with a dog. His love for you has been his secret for years—or at least weeks—but he's too bashful to tell you, so he follows you around, dreaming of the day he'll find the courage in his heart to introduce himself and let you know how he really feels about you.” Mary closed her eyes and planted long, noisy kisses on the back of her hand and up her arm. She giggled. “Maybe Red Cap is Bruce Rankin.”

“Thanks,” said Fanny. “The biggest moron
in school.” She paused. “Really, though, it scared me when I thought he—whoever he is—might want Dinner back.”

“Fanny, you worry too much. You, who always worries about failing exams and always gets A's. You, who used to be afraid of Mrs. Wagner's hollyhocks. No one's afraid of hollyhocks, but Fanny
Swann
is afraid of hollyhocks.”

“Am not.”

“Were too.”

“Well, maybe.” She had been. They were tall and spikey and the most ugly purply red color she had ever seen and you never knew when Mrs. Wagner's shriveled old head would pop out from among them saying: “Girlie! Girlie! Want a treat?” just like the witch in “Hansel and Gretel.” “I was afraid of
Mrs. Wagner
, not hollyhocks.”

“I'll bet if you were walking alone and came upon a bed of them, you'd cross the street.”

Fanny batted her eyelids. Maybe she would. She lifted her mug and swirled the
dregs of her hot chocolate, peering at the remains as if they held the answers to every question ever asked.

“Betcha,” Mary murmured.

“Auntie Fanny! Auntie Fanny!” Joey came galloping into the kitchen wearing his Batman cape made from a bath towel and a safety pin, and dragging a new, stuffed Mickey Mouse doll that was almost his size. Pea green crust decorated Joey's pale little upturned nose. His eyes were bubbles. He thrust the doll at Fanny. “Lookie!” he squeaked.

“Mickey Mouse. That's great.”

“It's not Mickey Mouse,” said Joey. “It's Catwoman. Meow.”

“Oh, I see! She's nice.”

Joey pointed out the diaper he had dressed her in and the Band-Aid on her nose. “No drips,” he said. “Good kitty.”

“Tom, the big-brother-jerk-of-the-world, put a Band-Aid on
Joey's
nose at my grandma's,” Mary whispered, rolling her eyes. “‘Because it's always running,' he said. That's where Joey got the idea.” She shook
her head in disbelief.

“You, stay for dinner,” Joey told Fanny. “You, too,” he added, kissing Catwoman.

Fanny looked at her friend.

“Let's ask,” said Mary.

Fanny stayed. And Mary walked her halfway home after supper. When she and Dinner were alone, Fanny imagined the painting that her father was working on. It was his biggest ever. A huge gathering of glassware, hit by brilliant light so that it sparkled in certain places, and even though it was clear glass, every color of the rainbow could be seen in the edges and reflections if you looked carefully. And if you looked even more carefully than that, near the cut-glass design in the most beautiful goblet, you would discover a portrait of the artist's daughter. And you would say, I wish I were that girl.