An Unexpected Grace (11 page)

L
ila heated leftover split pea soup for supper and set Grace's kibble and chicken on the floor. When she didn't cross the kitchen to eat, Lila thought perhaps she wasn't hungry. Lila pushed her paints aside on the kitchen table and sat down for her soup. But she wasn't hungry, either, because her mind was on Yuri Makov.

Agnes had raised two important questions without providing answers: Why had Yuri shot people after being fired from a job he didn't want? And what had been troubling him before Agnes fired him? When Lila so badly wanted answers, not getting them was hard. A fog of unknowing darkened her thoughts as she twirled her soup spoon between her thumb and index finger.

She swallowed some soup and noticed that Grace was staring at the kitchen floor's heater vent like she expected stray cats to leap out. That was odd. Lila got up from the table and looked through the metal grille to see what was so absorbing, but all she saw was darkness. Grace glanced at her, then returned her focus to the depths below the floor.

Lila had almost forgiven her for being a pest with Agnes. Grace probably couldn't help being possessive after never having a decent home. If someone visited again before Adam came and got her, Lila would lock her in the bedroom. But he'd better come soon, because every day Grace seemed to feel less like a foster dog and more like a permanent resident.

She kept staring into the heater vent while Lila finished her soup and carried her bowl to the sink. She was relieved that Grace was taking a break from her new clinging-vine impersonation and seemed to have found something besides Lila to be interested in. She sloshed soap and water into the soup pot and scraped a spoon against the bottom's crust. While Lila was cleaning the sink with a sponge, Grace got up and left the room.

The paintbrush she'd set to dry on a paper towel near the dish rack was gone. All that remained was a pale gray tinge on a pucker in the paper, where the wet bristles had been resting. Needing the brush to paint that night, Lila searched the counter. Nothing. Perhaps she'd knocked the brush to the floor when making dinner, she thought. She got on her knees and looked around the sink, but there was no brush—and she began to worry.

At Lila's high school graduation, her mother had given her the brush in an antique Chinese box. The brush was from France, made of Russian sable bristles attached to a smooth oak handle that felt like a beloved friend's hand. When Lila shook water from the bristles, they returned to a perfect point, which encouraged the precision that had won an award for
Wind Song
, one of her first paintings in college. To Lila, the brush was a tool for a lifetime, a symbol of her mother's belief in her—and it had meant all the more after her mother's death.

That was why Lila cringed when she crawled under the kitchen table and found oak splinters scattered like matchsticks beside the gold ring that had once held the bristles in place. Now the ring was a curved metal scrap, pocked and stippled by dog teeth. The missing bristles had undoubtedly made their way down Grace's gullet.

A lump of sadness rose in Lila's throat. Not getting answers she'd hoped for from Agnes had been disappointing, but Grace's destroying Lila's prized possession was worse. Maybe it was only a material object, but losing it felt like her mother had died a second time. Lila scooped up the metal and splinters and got to her feet. “Grace! Damn you! Grace!” Lila hurried down the hall.

When she didn't find Grace in the den, Lila went to the bedroom and lifted the bed skirt. Plastered next to the wall, Grace was resting her chin on her front paws. She blinked at Lila and knitted her eyebrows. Even Lila, who'd never been close to a dog, could read the emotion behind Grace's expression and recognize guilt in her frown.

Still, Lila couldn't muffle her anger. Grace had earned it. “You did this while I was talking with Agnes, didn't you? You were seeking revenge because I put you in the kitchen.”

Grace pressed herself against the wall. Her eyes begged,
Please, don't be mad! I couldn't help myself. When you banished me from the living room, I was very upset.

“I was upset too. You were being rude to Agnes.”

In my heart I meant no harm,
Grace's sad eyes said.

If dogs could speak, Lila was sure Grace would say she'd thought the brush was a stick, and all dogs chewed sticks, especially when the dogs were stressed. What was she supposed to do when a tempting piece of wood lay on the counter, asking for teeth? Couldn't the person who left the stick where a dog could reach it be to blame, at least a little?

Please, please, won't you love me?
Grace's sad eyes pleaded.

Lila dropped the bed skirt. She did not believe she was to blame; the demolished brush was Grace's fault. Lila had been responsible in caring for her, and look how she'd repaid the patience and goodwill. It wasn't fair that a dog forced on Lila had caused so much trouble.

“I've tried to get along with you, but it's not working,” Lila said.

Leaving Grace to stew in her transgression, Lila went back to the kitchen. She told herself that she had a right not to mollycoddle the dog orphans of the world. Adam was being maddeningly unreliable, and Lila had a long way to go to be healthy and strong. She had no time for Grace when she was trying to get her work and life in order.

Lila had to find a way to be dog-free. If her Pleaser objected, Lila would call on her Crazy Aunt, who would push the Pleaser off a ship with her hands tied behind her back, or banish her to Tokelau, or strangle her with Grace's red bandana.

 

When Lila woke the next morning, Grace had wriggled out from under the bed, but she wasn't waiting for Lila in the kitchen as usual. Lila didn't bother looking for her because she was still upset about her brush, though her annoyance at Grace had been tempered overnight. Now Lila's feelings leaned more toward hurt at Grace for betraying their temporary friendship and toward resentment at Adam for taking advantage.

Wrapping her resolve around her, Lila found Cristina's contact list in the kitchen drawer and phoned Adam's house.

After four rings, he greeted Lila on his answering machine. “You've reached Adam Spencer,” the recording said, as if she needed to be told. “Leave a message, and I'll call you back. Or try my cell.” Sounding more solicitous than he'd ever been with her, he gave the number.

At the beep, she said, “This is Lila Elliot,” then added, in case he'd forgotten, “I'm Cristina's friend . . . the one with Grace.” Lila's Pleaser made her sugarcoat her pill of resentment with a friendly tone of voice. “Would you call me? It's a little urgent, actually. I need for you to get serious about finding Grace a home.” She gave Cristina's number in case Adam didn't have it handy. For good measure, Lila called his cell phone and left the same message.

At the latest, she expected to hear from Adam by noon. If Cristina had been right that he was a good person, he would call Lila back quickly and show his good side. Trying to be positive, she pictured him stopping by in the late afternoon, eager to help her, and leading Grace to his pickup, where his Irish wolfhounds would be waiting. They'd all drive off together, slobbering and happy.

When Lila hung up the phone, Grace padded into the kitchen like a vandal returning to the scene of the crime. She sniffed the tile floor, sat down next to the table, under which she'd committed her atrocity, and gazed out the French door as if she were meditating on the backyard's Gravenstein apple tree. She must have hoped Lila's annoyance had cooled and they could make up and hang around together, a peaceable kingdom of two. By Grace's quiet presence, she let Lila know she was waiting to reconnect.

But Lila didn't feel like doing that. She steeled herself. It was time for Grace to go.

 

Lila's missing brush was like a pulled tooth that the tongue keeps going back to look for. All morning as she painted, she kept reaching for the brush and remembering with sadness that it was gone. She was working on a door from
Architectural Digest
, with a brass handle shaped like a dolphin and a window framed with scallops, like waves. When the phone never rang, she kept getting up and making sure it was securely in its cradle—and her frustration at not hearing from Adam slowly mushroomed into huffiness.

At noon, no matter if Lila seemed desperate, she left messages at both of Adam's numbers again to remind him of the importance of her call. When he did not phone back by two, she was certain he was too arrogant to stoop to returning messages. By four, she imagined him out cold in a hospital bed after an auto accident—having lost the use of his arms and legs and become brain damaged and incapable of speech—and her huffiness morphed into despair. By five, she called his numbers again but got recordings, and still another time she left messages, which now edged toward hostility.

 

Cristina used her cell phone only for crises because, she said, it might give her a brain tumor, and she had to live to see Rosie married. Normally, Lila would not have called Cristina's cell because she'd think there was an emergency and be alarmed. But she hadn't answered at her D.C. apartment, and she was indirectly to blame for Grace's brush atrocity. That warranted Lila calling her cell, alarm or not.

“What's
wrong
?!” Cristina asked. She must have thought Lila was about to tell her that the house was sliding down the mountain.

“Everything's fine. Don't worry. I just need to talk to you.”

“Are you okay?”

Lila sighed to introduce her despondence. “Adam's never found Grace a home. I've left messages all day, but he hasn't bothered getting back to me.”

“He must be busy.”

Lila doubted that. “What am I supposed to do with Grace? She's been with me almost a month.”

“How's the precious getting along?”

Through gritted teeth, Lila explained Grace's criminal act.

“She didn't mean to cause trouble. She was just being a dog,” Cristina said. “I'll buy you a new brush.”

“It can't be replaced. My mother gave it to me. I loved it.” Then Lila dug deeper to the root of the problem. “I can't worry about my arm and try to paint again when I'm being forced to take care of Grace. I wanted to help you, but it's not working. You've got to do something. I don't see how you could have left her here with me.” Lila's voice sounded shaky.

“I didn't want to leave her with you. I swear we tried to find a place for her. I told you that.”

“I know, but out of the gazillion people in the world, I can't believe I'm the only one who could take her.”

“We
asked
a gazillion people. Adam can tell you how hard we tried.”

“Maybe he could if he'd be decent enough to get back to me.”

“Call him again.”

“I'm willing to beg only so much for someone's help.” Lila watched a woodpecker go after a redwood trunk outside the kitchen window.

“Don't be mad at Adam. He's either out of town or busy. He's considerate.”

“Not that I've seen.”

“You'd see it if you knew him better. Really . . .”

As if Lila were interested—which she wasn't—Cristina described the care he'd taken when breaking up with his last girlfriend. On her freelance writer's irregular income, she'd racked up huge bills for an iPad, a BlackBerry, and expensive clothes. Adam bailed her out, but she wouldn't stop spending. “She was totally irresponsible. She didn't care,” Cristina said. “Adam was upset when he broke up with her, but he didn't pressure her about moving out of his house till she found a good place to live. He was thoughtful . . .”

“He's not being thoughtful to me, and he's being just as irresponsible as his girlfriend.” Lila pressed her hand over her eyes, the better to hide in some dark corner of herself, free of Adam and Grace.

At least Lila now knew he'd judged someone besides her, and he was an equal-opportunity spreader of his disapproval. If his ex-girlfriend told her side, she'd explain that she'd shopped believing she could pay but had run out of money. No compassionate person would end a relationship over a human mistake like that. As a miser, Adam probably spent days comparing prices for his wolfhounds' kibble.

“Can I do anything to help you hang on till Adam figures something out?” Cristina asked.

“That could take years. I need you to help me find a place for Grace
now
.”

Again, Cristina urged Lila to call Adam, but how many messages did Cristina expect her to leave? Finally, spiraling down in what Lila vowed to herself would be only momentary defeat, she asked, “Where are you anyway?”

“On my way to the grocery store with Rosie. What I wouldn't give for some California fruit right now. I want to come home.”

“You'll be back before you know it,” Lila said. “Is Rosie okay?”

“Her PlayStation died a little while ago. I'm keeping her occupied with the alphabet game.”

“Tell Lila about the snakes,” Rosie chimed in.

“Oh, yeah . . . We went to the zoo. This man was demonstrating how to milk venom. It was scary,” Cristina said. “Hold on, Lila . . . Look, there's a
P
, Rosie! In the billboard. On the Pepsi can . . .”

Cristina seemed as far away in thoughts as in miles. The Pepsi's
P
underscored in bold that Grace was Lila's problem.

 

After Lila hung up the phone, Grace turned away from the apple tree and gave her a sad, heartrending glance. She limped over, wagging her feathery tail, and sat in front of Lila. As Grace ratcheted up her glance to a stare of longing, sweet, starry-eyed adoration flowed out of her. Though Lila had locked her in the kitchen yesterday, Grace seemed to view her as her personal potentate; Lila had hung the moon with her own hands and invented chicken skin and beef gravy.