geriatric Doberman pinscher waddles out of the doghouse, through the open run gate, and waddles fast in Chloe’s direction.
Fast enough that I think he might think he’s running.
“Shoot,” the old guy says. “Thought I had ’im locked up.” He runs for the back door, the private entrance to our—hopefully— new place. “Don’t move,” he yells to Chloe. “Just don’t move a muscle. I’ll come get ’im.”
Chloe picks up another handful of whirlybirds and launches them. Then she sees the Doberman waddle-running in her direction, and she runs to him. Meets him halfway. Gets down on her knees and throws her arms around his neck. “Good dog,”
she says.
The good dog wags his stump of a tail.
Meanwhile, the old guy hasn’t even made it off the stoop.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” he says.
“I’m going to take the place,” I say. And I hand him two hundred dollars from my sock.
“First and last plus a security deposit.”
“Let me give you a deposit on it,” I say. “I’ll give you a hundred to hold the place, not rent it to anyone.” I hold the money out to him again. I move it slightly, wiggle it back and forth. Like the guy’s a cat, and I can make him jump for it. I don’t know why I bother. I don’t have last month’s rent. I don’t have a security deposit. I don’t have a job. I must not have a brain in my head, leading Chloe to the land of lawns, bushes, and trees just long enough to make her never want to leave again.
He takes it. “I hold the place a week, tops. You lose your deposit if it doesn’t work out.”
I go out in the backyard to talk to Chloe, and the dog grabs me by the back pocket of my jeans. He’s snarling, and he won’t let go.
The old guy screams at him. “Out, Bruno! Bruno! Out!”
But Bruno’s teeth remain in the “in” position. The guy has to come out and pull him off me. Lock him up in the pen. I look at the back of my jeans as best I can. I can see the holes his teeth made.
Chloe gives me a handful of whirlybirds. I see she expects me to throw them, so I do.
The old man has gone back in the house now, and the dog is snarling at me through the wire of his run.
“Good dog,” Chloe says.
As we’re walking up the driveway, Chloe says, “Wow. Your parents are rich.”
“This might be bad, Chlo. Just so you know.”
“What might happen?”
“My father might scream at me. Or he might even hit me.”
“What do I do if he hits you?”
“Nothing. You do nothing. You just get out of the way and trust me to take care of it.”
I knock on the door. I expected my stomach to be doing all these fluttery things, or cold things, or tight things, but instead I just have a spot right in the middle of me that feels dead.
My mother opens the door. It’s a weekday morning, but every hair is in place, her makeup is perfect, her long shell-pink nails are perfectly manicured. I’m not surprised, because it always was that way. I’m just taking it in. I won’t say her eyes go wide or she clutches her chest or any stupid things like that, because none of it happens anyway. A quick scared thing flits through her eyes, that’s all. Then she puts it away again.
“Jordan. My God. Your father is right out in the garage. How is this a good idea?”
“Good to see you, too, Mom.” I know, have always known, that this is the crucial moment. I might not even be allowed in.
“Mom,” I say. “This is Chloe.”
I watch my mother’s face for a minute, noticing—almost enjoying—how she despises moments like this. The kind where she’s thrown completely off her stride, where her composure takes a step to the side and she has to scramble to find it again.
There are things I still haven’t forgiven her. More the things she allowed than the things she did, but some of both, I suppose.
“Can we come in for a minute?” She’s still not ready to answer, so I just lead Chloe in. We sit down on the edge of the sofa, close together, holding hands.
Then
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