The Family Man Buddy Caulkins had never been the kind of boy to spit in girls’ hair or knock a book out of their hands. He never tripped them on the playground or built a boys-only clubhouse in a tree, but here he was at age fifty-five, a club unto himself. He imagined an invisible neon billboard flashing on the roof of his house—NO GIRLS ALLOWED!!! To Buddy, women were born with an extra sense, like dogs with acute hearing. Driving by at eighty miles per hour, they could pick up on the sign, whereas he couldn’t see it to save his life. He glanced at his roof before walking up the red brick steps. He knew the idea was crazy—he knew—but still he looked. The cool night air wrapped itself around him as he slipped his key into the lock. It didn’t feel much like June. It didn’t feel much like anything. A large, black nose poked its way around the door as Buddy opened it. The German Shepard stopped to sniff his hand before limping down the steps. Coffee? Sweat? Death? What could the dog smell on him? Buddy picked up the collection of unwrapped newspapers as the nearly deaf dog went about his business. You’re never alone with a dog. He had read that on a bumper sticker somewhere. Or had his mother said it? It sounded like her. Buddy closed his eyes, his head buzzed from lack of sleep. He listened to the wind blow its way through the leaves, twisting and twirling them without mercy. The dog barked twice. Buddy had given Bear to April on her tenth birthday, and even though she’d left six years ago for college and then business school, the dog still considered her his master. After each of her visits, Bear would cry and refuse to eat for days. Buddy whistled sharply. “Come on,” he called, walking into the house. If he had ever been this tired before, he couldn’t remember it. The dog pushed his way past Buddy into the kitchen. The wallpaper, garlands of brown, red and orange fruit, was beginning to peel above the back door to the deck. Buddy put the newspapers on the counter and pushed the flashing red light on the machine. 4:45. Delta. Don’t worry about Mom. I’ll let her know. See you. Love you. Try to sleep. “Try to sleep,” he repeated as he wrote down April’s flight information. That would be a trick. He hadn’t slept, really slept, in months. So Claudia didn’t know his mother had finally died, six hours ago to be exact. Buddy picked up the phone and punched the first two digits of Claudia’s number. It was past midnight. Carrying the phone into the darkened living room, he stared out the bay window at the farmhouse across the highway. In the yellow moonlight he could make out the curve of the highway that divided his yard from his ex-wife’s. Her house was dark. “OK,” he breathed and hung up the phone. He would wait until tomorrow. The caramel couch Buddy woke up on the next morning was modern, sleek and matched nothing in the white living room. It was also uncomfortable. Buddy’s back and neck were stiff; every joint ached. April had liked the couch though, so he bought it. She promised on her next break to help him finish the job—new curtains, new coffee table, the whole shebang!—but that had been over two years ago. Bright sunlight flooded the bay window. Bear licked his arm to go out. Buddy grabbed the phone. Hi. This is Paul and Claudia. Life is short. Make it quick. Buddy hung up. Cutesy. Claudia hadn’t been that way when they were married. When they had been first married, she’d been more formal, questioning everything. She had stood in their brand new kitchen, holding a wallpaper brush in her hand and said, “I don’t know.” Buddy had looked down at her from the ladder. “What’s the matter?” “Is it too heavy?” The brown, red and orange wallpaper—Promised Harvest was its name—had an autumnal feel. Buddy climbed down and looked at the two strips they had hung. “I like it. What do you think, April Cakes?” April sat encased in a wooden playpen, fourteen months with blonde wisps and dark eyes like his mother’s. Had his hands not been sticky with glue, he would’ve picked her up and burrowed his nose into the soft rolls of her neck. He would’ve melted her in butter and slathered her on toast if he could’ve. “It’s just so … ,” Claudia shrugged her shoulders, “heavy.” Buddy had looked at the gold-flecked countertops, the gleaming stove, the green refrigerator. They’d sunk everything they had into building the four-bedroom, brick ranch. And even though Claudia’s parents had given them the acre and a half across the highway from the house she grew up in, Claudia worried they had bit off more than they could chew. Buddy had reassured her. With his income as a surveyor, they could afford for Claudia to stay home, run the house, have a couple more kids. He took another step back and looked at his wife. “I love it,” he said. “It’s perfect.” “The showroom is right in here,” Dan Baldwin said to Buddy. “I think you’ll be impressed with our selection.” Dan opened the double doors to a large room with botanical drawings in gilded frames and several wingback chairs. Nine to ten caskets stood at various angles, open and ready. Buddy looked at his watch. It was eleven a.m. His mother had been dead for seventeen hours. This time yesterday she was still alive, he thought. “Geez Buddy, how long’s it been? Twenty-five years? Thirty?” Dan was a tall man, thick-waisted and broad-shouldered. He had played football and sat in front of Buddy in homeroom for four years without once speaking Buddy’s name. He still had the golden blonde hair he had in high school, although it was brassier and thinner around his temples. Buddy waited for him to turn around to see if he was losing it in the back, too. “What’s this one called?” Buddy’s sister Merilee ran her fingers along the side of a white metal casket. A picture of the Virgin Mary was embroidered into the pink lining. Dan rocked back on his heels. “The Guadalupe. Big hit with the Mexicans. You put the Virgin Mary on anything, and I mean anything—candles, caskets, pens—it goes.” Buddy slipped his hand around Merilee’s arm, steering her to a dark casket near the back. “You are never alone with a dog,” he said into her ear. “That’s the Presidential,” Dan said over them. “One-hundred-percent mahogany.” “Isn’t this the casket we buried Dad in?” Buddy asked. “The models change every few years, but she’s a classic. I can check the records.” “Could you, Dan? Thanks.” Merilee waited until he left the room. “Wonder how many miles it gets to the gallon?” Buddy stared at her. Her skin was darker than his; her eyes brown, his were blue. They had the same thin grey hair. When she was forty-one, Merilee had lost her husband to a lymphoma. She had talked about moving to Raleigh, to Atlanta, to somewhere, but in the end stayed in her house a mile and a half down the road from him, raising her four children on her own. Buddy and Merilee’s father’s death, a heart attack twenty years ago, was over before it started. Their children had skinned knees, earned diplomas and started families in the time it had taken their mother to die, though. The burden of her care had encircled Buddy and Merilee, wrapping its way through their nights and weekends, barring them from the world of Saturday night dates and single parent socials at church. They’d been banned from moving on. “I like the idea of them having matching caskets,” Buddy said. “It kinda puts them back together again.” Merilee laughed. “Well, hell. Let’s just pull Dad up and bury them in the same one. Be a lot cheaper.” Buddy fingered the cream lining. “Maybe we could get matching caskets, too.” “Quit being so morose, Buddy.” Merilee pushed her glasses up her nose. “Besides, I’m getting a one-of-a-kind. Something in pink.” “What? You afraid God won’t see you coming?” “Oh, he’s expecting me,” she said. “I just want to make sure everybody else sees me when I get there, too.” Hi. This is Paul and Claudia. Life is short. Make it quick. Philosophy, Buddy thought hanging up. I get philosophy when I call now. There hadn’t been philosophy when Claudia called him over to her parent’s house four years after their divorce. There had just been her plans. Late summer bees had flown around them, their stingers ready as they stood in the yard. Buddy had felt beefy and sweaty looking across the highway at their old house, his house now. His grass, neatly trimmed and edged, was mostly brown. Claudia was tanned as usual, her blonde hair piled into a frizzy halo. She wore a white peasant blouse and a long red and orange skirt that brushed the ground. Buddy sighed. He missed the tailored cotton dresses she used to wear when they were first married, the pastel headbands, the soft, pink lipstick. This look was new since he’d seen her last, but then she’d had a lot of different looks since their divorce. Her mother had been dead three years, her father two months. Buddy watched a squirrel scamper down a tree and shoot under the front porch. “You’ve probably got wood rot,” he said. “Yeah, I know.” “You’re going to need a new roof before winter. And a hot water heater, too.” “Yep.” “If it’s wood rot, it’s over. You’ll have to tear the whole thing down and start over.” “The foundation’s good,” she said. “I had it inspected. It’s just a question of redefining the space. Cutting what doesn’t work and keeping the rest.” April rode figure eights around them on her bike. She was eleven now. Her arms and legs, long from a sudden growth spurt, stuck out in sharp angles. “It’s going to take some cash,” Buddy said. Claudia picked up a short stick. “I got a job at Code Pest Control.” “Doing what?” “Killing bugs.” Buddy snorted. If they’d stayed married, she would’ve never had to resort to this. “I’m performing a service people need,” Claudia said. “It’s an honorable profession.” “Killing rats?” “I’m not a squeamish woman.” “What about April?” “April’ll be fine.” Claudia swatted a bee flying around her face with the stick. “What I don’t know about is you. Is this going to cause problems, me living here?” Buddy felt sluggish and slow. The heat was too much, really. He wanted to be inside the cool, grey rooms of his home. “April, honey, why don’t you ride in the back? I don’t want you so close to the highway.” Wordlessly, April turned her bike. Bear trotted down the front porch steps and followed, her faithful stalker. “We’ll need to be careful with April. She can’t ever cross the highway by herself.” “Of course, Buddy,” Claudia said. “Of course, of course, of course.” April slid behind the wheel of Buddy’s green Ford. “I can’t believe this thing still runs,” she said. The paint was peeling and the heat worked only in the summer. The truck was paid for though, which made it beautiful to Buddy. April’s flight hadn’t gotten in until after five, but there was nothing official to do until the showing the next evening. Buddy slammed the door out of habit. April turned in her seat. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Me too.” His mother had been dead twenty-four hours now. He was glad he was with April and that she was driving. Turning out of the airport, she changed the radio to a station playing Billie Holiday. Nothing he would ever listen to, but nice with the windows down and the smell of grass and honeysuckle wafting through. “Watch it through here. Lotta cops.” “I’m doing all of thirty-seven, Dad.” “I know. I know.” The hardest part of teaching April to drive had been the curves. She would take them too fast, break too late. “Not so fast,” he would yell. “You never know what’s coming around the curve.” “How’s Aunt Merilee doing?” “Merilee is Merilee.” “Think she’ll move in with Trina and Joe now?” “Why would she do that?” Trina was Merilee’s oldest and married to a dentist with two-year old twin boys. They lived in a gated-community in Birmingham. “Did Trina say she was?” “Yeah, in her last e-mail.” “Oh, e-mail.” Buddy shook his head. Bear lay between them, snoring softly. His head was on April’s lap—a ninety-pound lap dog. “You have no idea how much he misses you.” “Don’t kid yourself.” Buddy stroked Bear’s stomach. “I don’t see Merilee moving to Alabama.” “Why would she stay here? Her kids have moved. Grandma’s gone. She’s not dating anybody.” “We just got pizza delivery in Browns Summit,” Buddy said, wiping his brow. He looked out the window at a row of junk shops where an elegant department store had once stood. The sales ladies would give him butterscotch candies from a silver dish while his mother shopped for hats. “Take a right, and I’ll show you where my uncle’s deli used to be.” They always drove past the spot that was now a British Petroleum. “Did you ever get your mother?” “I need to talk to you. She’s coming, but Paul is too.” “She’s bringing a date?” “They’re married. They go places together.” Buddy rolled up his window and turned on the air. “What’s she going to do? Carry his oxygen tank on her back?” April sighed. “You want me to call her?” “No, I will.” “You can’t, Dad. She’s married now.” “He’ll be dead before their first anniversary.” April turned the truck into the gravel drive of her grandmother’s house. “One funeral at a time, Dad. One funeral at a time.” Hi. This is Paul and Claudia. Life is short. Make it quick. “Your husband is four hundred years old,” Buddy said after he hung up. Before Paul, when it had just been Claudia living across the road from him, they had done things together. They’d taken pictures of April and her prom dates in Claudia’s front yard. They’d endured hours of bad acting to hear April say four lines during her high school theatrical career. At April’s basketball games, Claudia would yell at the referees, while Buddy sipped his Cokes quietly beside her. “April needs a haircut,” he had said. “You think?” “Her hair is always in her face. You can’t see her eyes.” “Oh.” Claudia turned back to the game. “It’s just a style. Give it a month; it’ll change.” “She’d look prettier with it cut.” “Tell me you didn’t say that to her.” “I wasn’t mean if that’s what you’re getting at.” “Buddy.” April drove the ball down the court and passed it to a tall, redheaded girl who laid it in easily. Claudia cupped her hands around her mouth. “Pretty pass, April.” She turned to Buddy. “Your trouble is that you don’t want anything to change. You want to put a pin through her and encase her in a display like some rare butterfly.” “Ha, ha, ha,” he said. “What’s that? Exterminator psychology?” “Just an observation. An human observation.” Buddy’s eyes watered as Dan opened the door to the funeral home. Dan had suggested a private visit the morning of the showing. At the time, Buddy had thought it a good idea. Now that he and Merilee were here though, he was tired. He hadn’t slept much the night before. It was eleven a.m. His mother had been dead for almost forty-one hours. Merilee looked fresh, collected. “Thank you for letting us have this time with Mother,” she said, taking Dan’s hand. “Anything you need. That’s what I’m here for.” Buddy looked at Dan. He had been married three times. “Would you like some coffee? Tea? Water?” Dan asked. Chardonnay? A ride in my convertible? A weekend in the Poconos? “We’re fine, Dan,” Buddy said, putting his arm around Merilee’s shoulder. “We’d just like some family time now.” “Of course. If you need anything, I’ll be in my office.” Buddy waited for Dan to leave. “He has a reputation.” Merilee pushed her glasses up her nose, annoyed. “I like a man who knows what he’s doing.” “I’m serious.” “Me, too,” she said and stuck her tongue out at him. They looked at each other for a minute and then walked over to the casket. The funeral home had done what funeral homes do. The mint-green dress, one their mother had worn to a cousin’s wedding and was now too big, had been pinned to fit her. Her white hair was softly curled, but her face looked stiff, the cheeks hard and sunken. She was an iceberg now, vast and mysterious, eternal. A false pink sheen lay over the icy blue of her face. “Merilee?” Buddy said, leaning into the casket. “She’s wearing lipstick.” “What?” “She’s wearing lipstick.” Buddy scanned his mother’s body. “And fingernail polish.” “You’re kidding.” Buddy could feel the nascent notes of hysteria climbing the back of his throat. “I can’t believe this. I specifically told him—no make-up.” “I can’t believe she starts wearing make-up now.” “This isn’t funny, Merilee.” “It’s a little funny.” “Well, as long as you’re having a good time.” Merilee stepped back from the casket, her eyes dark and small. “This isn’t any easier for me than it is for you.” Her voice was sharp. A tiny, blue vein throbbed under her left eye. When had she gotten so old? Buddy almost stumbled grabbing her arm. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” “OK,” she finally said, “Stay here and calm down. I’ll talk to Dan.” Calm down, he thought, turning back to their mother. Calm down, sure. Noticing that one of her pearl buttons had slid out its buttonhole, he tried to fix it one-handed, but only managed to push the fabric further apart. At the sight of her skin, he froze. His hands began to shake as he unbuttoned the other buttons and slowly pulled the top of her dress open. His mother wasn’t wearing a bra or a slip. She probably didn’t have panties on either. Apparently, one didn’t need to have underwear on to meet their maker. Buddy’s hands curled into fists. She would’ve been mortified. He quickly spun around to find Dan, but then turned back to cover her. He had seen his mother naked before. Necessity had long ago pushed them past any point of modesty between mother and son. Always, though, he had averted his eyes during the sponge baths and gown changes. This time he looked. There was a two-inch incision above her collarbone and another near her navel, he assumed from the embalmer. The stone bags that had been her breasts hung off each side of her ribs. He breathed deeply and awkwardly, as if under a spell, leaned into the casket. Slowly he placed his head between her bare, cold breasts. Her body was as hard as it looked, but also slick, as if someone had put lotion on it. The faint smell of embalming fluids made him sick to his stomach, but he didn’t move. Instead, he concentrated on relaxing his neck. When he closed his eyes, he tried to imagine the slightest rise and fall, but there was nothing. The only person who had known him his whole life was gone. Hi. You’ve reached Paul and Claudia. Life is short. Make it quick. Buddy hung up again before the beep. Must be naptime for Paul. Had it only been eight months since Claudia and Paul had gotten married? A bitter laugh escaped Buddy’s throat, surprising him. He had actually looked forward to her coming home from Tulum. He had teased her opening the door. “You look like terrible.” “Thank you,” she said, leaning over to pet Bear. She looked anything but terrible. She was rested, tan, almost young again with her blond, grey hair swept back in a ponytail. “You want your mail?” Claudia shook her head. “Sit with me.” Still holding the bag of chips he’d been eating when she’d rung the bell, he followed her to the swing on his porch. He had always looked forward to the post-mortem of her trips, hearing about the ruins she explored and the people she met. It had taken them twenty-five years, but they had evolved. He knew it well, the geography of their divorce. It was nice. It had a pleasant climate. “So how was it?” “I met somebody.” “Yeah?” Buddy chewed the chips carefully, turning the hard edges into mush before swallowing. “I threw out all the junk mail for you.” “His name is Paul. He’s from Connecticut but he’s moving here. I got married, Buddy.” The chip wad began to dissolve, coating Buddy’s teeth and tongue in a chunky film. “Paul,” he said. He tried to swallow, but the chips would not go down. Buddy stopped the swing with his foot, coughing and gagging. He grabbed his throat and massaged it roughly. Bear walked over to the swing, his eyes darting between Buddy and Claudia. “Are you OK?” she asked. Buddy nodded his head. “It just happened,” she said. Buddy coughed. “In seven days?” “Five.” “Does April know?” Claudia looked across the highway. “She flew down for the wedding.” “April was there?” “I didn’t want her tell you. I wanted it to come from me.” Buddy rubbed his throat. It felt scraped and sore. “Where was my invite?” “What?” “I thought we were family, too.” Claudia looked up with tears in her eyes. Buddy hadn’t seen her cry since they were married. She gave out a small laugh. “Sometimes you just really wear me out, you know?” Buddy and Merilee drove with the windows rolled up and the air conditioning on. The day had gotten unbearably steamy while Dan made apologies and promises to them. “I don’t know how this happened,” he had said, “but we will have your mother exactly the way you want her tonight.” They now had six hours before the showing. “I know,” Merilee said, slapping her hands together. “Let’s go to Yum-Yums.” Buddy turned the car without speaking. He drove slowly, taking his time along the curves of the road. “Mom loved this place,” Merilee said, licking the runaway drips off her cone. They sat in a red booth near the back of the tiny, air-conditioned shop. “She did?” “Yeah, it was her favorite.” “I’ve never seen her eat here in my life,” Buddy said. Merilee shifted uncomfortably on the cold bench. “We used to come here some.” “You did? Where was I?” “I don’t know. Football. Basketball.” “What else did you do without me?” “Well, the Christmases got bigger after you left.” Buddy put his cone down in the plastic bowl they had given him at the counter. “Oh, for God’s sake, Buddy, I’m kidding. It was a girl thing. Just Mom and me. Didn’t you and Dad do anything like that?” “No.” “Well, you had Mom’s butterscotch.” “What are you talking about?” “The butterscotch she kept in her purse. Nobody could have any except you.” “I don’t remember that.” Merilee pointed her finger at him. “You weren’t as deprived as you like to think.” Buddy pulled a napkin out of the metal dispenser and slowly wiped his mouth. “Are you moving to Birmingham? With Trina and Joe?” “Where’d you get that?” “Trina told April they were adding on a mother-in-law suite.” “Oh, you mean the babysitter suite.” “Well, are you?” “God, Buddy. I just got all of my kids out of the house. What makes you think I want to move back in with them?” “You’re awful.” “No,” she said, standing up and brushing the crumbs off her black pants, “I’m not. I’m just not like you. I love my family, but I need spaces too. After all this, I just want to watch my soaps and can tomatoes.” “Can I still come over?” Buddy asked. “As long as you call first.” Hi. You’ve reached Paul and Claudia. Life is short. Make it quick. Buddy hung up. Paul. The name was like a blunt blow to the back of the head. Buddy had seen him coming and going plenty, but only talked to him once, about four months ago. He had been on his way home from his mother’s when Paul pulled out in front of him on Church Street. Buddy’s mother had cried most of the night, soiling herself; she was a baby now. He had been relieved when Ellen, a paper-thin black woman from Hospice, arrived for the morning shift with coffee and Krispy Kremes. Ellen had lost her husband to Lou Gherig’s disease three years earlier. In their first meeting with Hospice, the director told Buddy and Merilee that most of the volunteers had lost someone within the past five years. “That’s one hell of a singles club,” Merilee had said afterward. And now here he was, following Paul home. Buddy could’ve stopped at Roy’s Texaco for gas or turned off onto Yanceyville Street for another way home, but it would’ve been obvious. Besides, he had been driving Church Street his whole life. He knew the curve of the road between the moss and mosquito-filled lakes. He knew the best place to pass another car was on the hill after Bowman’s farm. And he knew the speed changed from fifty miles per hour to thirty-five just before the Grove housing development. He could’ve driven Church Street blind-folded. He wasn’t about to change his way home for anybody, let alone Paul. Paul was old. To Buddy, he looked like a boozy club pro—white shorts, pastel shirts, hair gel probably—but April had assured him that Paul was quite likeable with politically sound thoughts and a dry sense of humor. “You got this from one day in Mexico?” Buddy had asked her over the phone. Buddy had tried to steer clear of Paul and Claudia in the four months since their wedding, but he hadn’t escaped the sight of a younger blonde woman with three small children. They had stayed for a week and a half. So Claudia had grandchildren now. Claudia had a red sports car. Claudia probably had a new tennis racket, too. Buddy slowed as he approached the flashing caution light. Paul turned quickly; Buddy followed. Here, the only place on the old highway, the road went straight. Had the engineers gotten frustrated with the dips and curves of the land? Had they decided they would impose a straight edge on an unruly landscape? Buddy admired the clean lines. Straightening the road must have been hard to do; the stretch only lasted a mile before curving violently again between his house and Claudia’s. There were warning signs of course, but the curve was quick. The sheer sharpness, the pull in a completely different direction could be breathtaking if you were going fast enough. There’d been serious wrecks over the years; it was a wonder people didn’t crash every day. Sensibly, Paul slowed as he approached it. Instead of turning into his driveway though, he turned into Buddy’s. “Good God,” Buddy said, following him. “He’s so old, he’s forgotten where he lives.” “Hello,” Paul said as Buddy got out of his car. A white sweater lay across the back of Paul’s shoulders. Tennis anyone? Sailing? Martini with an olive? “What can I do you for?” Buddy asked. “Claudia says you’re quite the surf fisher.” “It’s been a few years.” “Well, I picked up a couple of rods at a yard sale, and she thought maybe you could give me some pointers. Maybe go fishing sometime.” Buddy nodded. He was too tired for pretend pleasantries. His mother was taking his veneer with her. “My mother is dying.” “We know. April calls every day.” Buddy looked at the sun. Tiny, white dots appeared before him. How could he be so tired and still form syllables, much less words? How could April call her mother every day and him only every other week? “I don’t think I’m going to have much time for fishing.” Paul leaned on his car. “Claudia’s worried.” “That’s not exactly her job description anymore.” Paul softly laughed and shrugged. “You tell her that. I’m just the new guy here.” He climbed into his car and leaned out the open window. “If there’s anything we can do, let us know,” he said, putting the car into reverse. Buddy wanted to hit him. He wanted to tell him what he’d do to him if he ever came into his yard again, but instead he threw his hand up and said, “Turn around in the yard. You don’t want to back out on that curve.” Paul waved. Buddy watched him as he maneuvered the car around without going into the yard. I shouldn’t have told him, he thought. I should’ve let him learn the hard way like everybody else. The driveway to his mother’s home was full of foreign cars from out-of-state. His nieces and nephews. Trina and Joe and their two. Two more in college. Another in podiatry school. What is it to lose a grandmother, he thought. One who had been sick a long time? In another state? Probably not so much. Merilee sighed. “I suppose we should’ve brought back some ice cream.” The sound of easy laughter greeted them at the back door. April had grown up with Merilee’s children; Buddy had seen to that as he and Claudia hadn’t gotten around to having more children. There’d been overly orchestrated holidays, swim classes, summer camps, everything he could think of to strengthen their roots to home and one another. He had tried to plant them like little seeds. In cement. An unexpected rush of anger colored his cheeks. Is this what he could expect? Home only for funerals, weddings and holidays? “What’s wrong?” April met him on the back porch. She was powdered, fresh, clean in a simple black dress. Her hair, pulled back into a tight knot, revealed her slender neck. She could’ve been Claudia thirty years earlier. “Did you ever get your mother?” “She thinks maybe it’s a better idea if she doesn’t come.” Buddy ran his hand across his bald head, stopping at a small scab near his ear. The veneer was cracking off in chunks now. “Let me guess. Paul’s idea?” “She’s trying to respect your wishes.” “Not coming is respecting my wishes?” April swallowed. “I gotta go.” Buddy stared at her. “Bear hasn’t been let out yet, but I’m going right now.” “You forgot him?” “No, Dad. I’m going right now.” “He’s fourteen years old. He’s been locked up all morning.” “I know. I’m sorry. People have been dropping food off all morning. It’s been crazy.” Buddy could feel the rage crawling up his throat. “He’s your dog. Do you have any idea what it’s like after you go? He barks all night. He won’t eat for days.” “I know, Dad.” “No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have abandoned him.” “I didn’t abandon him, “ she said, “I was living in a dorm.” “That was convenient.” “Oh, God.” She began to cry. “I left for school.” Buddy looked at her. There were circles under her eyes; it struck him she probably wasn’t a very good sleeper either. He turned and walked to the screen door. “Where are you going?” she asked. “To take care of Bear like I always do.” Even though the showing was in less than an hour, Buddy sat down on his front steps, laying his suit beside him. “Come here boy,” he called half-heartedly, but Bear didn’t hear him, walking slowly from pine to magnolia, sniffing and peeing. Buddy rubbed a small, dull ache above his left eye. He had planned on getting a dog walker or a neighbor kid to watch him these last few months, but there had been so many other things to do. Instead, he kept Bear locked in the house during the day. Lots of people do it, he had told himself. A car sped by, the sound turning Buddy’s head in time to see a black sedan pass out of sight. His gaze rested on Claudia’s yard. Structurally, it hadn’t changed from when he had first seen it some thirty-five years earlier. The circle drive was still there, the weeping willow, the magnolias. Her mother’s azaleas, an unnatural pink, were in full bloom, but there were some kind of yellow flowers that Claudia must have planted recently. The house, a greenish-blue with black shutters, had been white in her parent’s day. And the porch was different, of course. She had torn the old one down five years ago and replaced it with a wrap-around porch. The finishing touch had been the white wicker furniture and porch swing, which were now painted green. When did she do that? And the driveway had been bricked over, but when? Buddy closed his eyes. When had everything changed? It was so obvious, a homemade sign painted in flowers, porches and driveways. Truths so true, they could’ve been printed on bumper stickers. Life is short. Make it quick. Buddy could feel small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He had planned on taking a quick shower. He had planned on locking Bear back in the house. He had planned on many, many things, but instead he stood up and walked into the yard. He grabbed Bear’s collar roughly before crossing the highway. Banging on the screen door, the sleepy beating of a fan was the only answer he got. He tried not to look at the front porch strewn with newspapers and coffee cups. A pair of men’s loafers lay beside one of the rockers. Instead he looked through the door down the long hallway, now painted the color of butter. It used to be white. A silver mirror hung over a small dark table made for such hallways. Fresh-cut flowers filled a blue vase. Buddy banged on the door again. “Be right there,” he heard Claudia call from the back of the house. Bear whined by his leg. “Just a minute, boy,” he said, watching Claudia walk to the door. Dressed in a denim skirt and white t-shirt, the fabric strained against the flesh of her arms and breasts. She’d put on weight. Her blue eyes were small and pale behind the large black glasses. When had she started wearing glasses? And her hair, long the last he’d seen it, was now short and curly. A wisp of grey curved around her face and rested on her cheek. He barely recognized her. “I didn’t know you were at home.” Claudia stepped out onto the porch and hugged him. “I’m so sorry.” Buddy stood still in her arms. “Can you watch Bear for me? The showing is in an hour, and I don’t know how long I’ll be.” Breaking the embrace, Claudia leaned over and stroked Bear’s ears. “Of course.” The dog licked her hand. “April’s leaving Tuesday,” he said, irritated at Bear’s display of affection. “I know.” Bear sniffed Claudia’s feet before slowly climbing down the steps. The dog wandered over to a favorite azalea bush. “I’m taking her to the airport.” “You are?” “Yeah, didn’t she tell you?” “No.” “It’s been busy, I’m sure.” Claudia put her hand on Buddy’s arm. He could feel her wedding band through the thin cotton of his shirt. “She’s not coming back,” he said. “You don’t know that.” “She’ll get a job. She’ll meet someone. There’s nothing to come back here for.” “One day at a time, Buddy. One day at a time.” “I’ll tell you what, Claudia. Could you do me a favor? Could you just shut up? For once in your life, could you shut the fuck up?” A small gasp escaped Claudia’s lips. Her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. Buddy thought he had gone too far, but the sound of tires and brakes shattered the thought instantly. He wouldn’t be able to remember the sounds afterward, but Claudia’s face, a relief in shock and disbelief, would forever be burned into his memory. Buddy hesitated. The heat, oppressive and thick, hung still. It was as if someone had switched on a vacuum and sucked the air out of the day. Nothing bad has actually happened until I see it, he thought before slowly turning from Claudia’s door to the highway. There was nothing. No car upended. No tires spinning horribly in mid-air. The woods were still. The car had made it. He turned back to Claudia. “How in the world …” “No, no, no,” she said, pushing past him. “Claudia?” Buddy asked as she moved down the porch steps and through the yard. He followed, each step heavy and slow. She didn’t look back at him until she was in the middle of the highway. “Claudia,” he yelled as she fell to her knees. Running the last half of the yard, he climbed the ditch and found her kneeling beside the crumpled mass of blood, bone and fur. “It was a state trooper,” she said, dazed. “He had his lights on.” Buddy stared. He had known. He had known when he had heard the tires and brakes, but somehow had averted his gaze so he hadn’t seen Bear’s body until the last possible moment. A gun fired in his brain. “Claudia, get up.” “I thought he was in the yard.” “We have to get out of the highway,” he said, grabbing her elbow. “I’ll get a blanket.” “No, help me move him,” Buddy said, trying to lift the dog’s body. Claudia picked up Bear’s head, and together they struggled to carry him across the highway. As Claudia shifted her hands for a better grip, Buddy placed his foot on the steep bank to his yard and lost his footing. He slid into the ditch bringing Bear and Claudia with him. They managed to stay upright without dropping the dog. “Are you OK?” Claudia asked. “Yeah. Just give me a minute.” They stood there, Buddy panting in the ditch, Claudia straddling the embankment, still holding Bear’s head. “How do you want to do this?” she asked. “Here, put his head on my shoulder.” “He’s got to be at least a hundred pounds.” “Good God, Claudia. Just give him to me.” Wrapping one arm under the dog’s hind legs and the other around his torso, Buddy climbed out of the ditch. Concentrating on keeping Bear’s head on his shoulder, he carefully placed one foot in front of the other. He feared tripping; he knew if he fell he would not be able to get back up, but with each step home, the dog somehow grew lighter. There was a lifting, a letting go. Buddy shuddered. The stench of the dog filled his nostrils. “Here, let me,” Claudia said, opening the door. Buddy stepped into the cold, grey rooms of his home. The frigid air conditioning, a shock after the intensity of the heat outside, made him instantly nauseous. He carried Bear, weightless now, past the living room with April’s couch down the long hallway to his bedroom. Claudia followed, the grey carpet muting her footsteps. The room was freezing, a tomb. The bed Buddy and Claudia bought on their third anniversary—knobby wooden posts, bulbous spindles, chunky 1970s golden oak—stood as it did the day she left. A pristine, white coverlet, one his mother had crocheted for them, covered it, the corners pulled even and tight. A mass of white, tufted pillows crowned the top. “Do you want me to open the blinds?” Claudia asked. Buddy shook his head no and walked around the bed. Tenderly he laid Bear down as if he were a mother. A daughter. A wife. “I’m going to call April.” “No.” Buddy leaned over the dog and tried to place one paw on top of the other, as if he were asleep. Claudia stood in the doorway, her hands pressed to her lips. After a long moment, she stepped toward him. “Do you want me to stay?” Buddy looked at Bear. A circle of crimson, imperfect, flowed from the dog’s wounds onto the white coverlet. “No. I’ve got it now.” Claudia smiled, an awful, false smile, and turned to leave as silently as she had come in. Buddy waited for the door to close. The alarm clock on the nightstand ticked loudly; its beating relentless as a heart. There were dust particles everywhere, floating in the filtered sunlight. Buddy stretched his palm out as if to give them a place to land. Yes, he thought, this is where dust particles come home to. Of course, who knew? Maybe these dust particles were just passing through on their way from one place to another. The front door closed, and Buddy put his hand down. It had taken Claudia a long time to leave. Yesterday, and all the days before, it would have pleased him, her uncertainty about whether to stay or go, but now it just made him tired. He sat on the bed and looked at the small, white alarm clock. It was old. It had belonged to Claudia before they were married. The clock ticked off a second, and then another. He should probably call April and Merilee. So many things to do. Instead Buddy kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. He put his face into a patch of fur unmatted by blood, closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Dog. Sweat. Death. As he drifted off to sleep, the telephone in the kitchen began to ring. Family_Man_2_files/Family%20Man%20Final.doc
 
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