Notes From a Liar and Her Dog (9 page)

“You had to? Why is that?”

“He has a heart problem. He has to have his pill. The vet said I have to give him pills three times a day. She said I couldn’t miss one. You said we were going
to be here all day. How else could I give him his middle-of-the-day pill?”

“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

“It’s true.”

She groans and shakes her head. “Surely your mother or one of your sisters could have given him his pill.”

“They don’t know I went to the vet.”

Just Carol grabs hold of the steering wheel with both hands, then turns to me. “Tell me, are you ever honest about anything? It seems as if everything you say is some kind of big secret or an out-and-out lie. What is the point?”

I say nothing. This is one of those questions that gets you in even more trouble if you try to answer it.

Just Carol turns the car on. We drive out of the zoo and onto the main road. I look out the window at the brown grass-covered hills again, but now I hate them. I wish they were all coated with houses and cement just like everywhere else I’ve lived.

Just Carol is ignoring me. I am angry. I don’t make up lies for no reason. I just move the truth around a little when it gets in my way. What’s the big deal about that? My mouth forms the words, but no noise comes out. I’m feeling so shaky from having come so close to losing Pistachio that everything feels all twisted around inside me. And I feel rotten about Harrison. I look over at him. He has combed all of Pistachio’s hair with his hand.

Just Carol is driving fast. We’re past all the brown
hills now and rapidly approaching the cutoff to Sarah’s Road. We pass Picco Pizza, the gas station, and the used-clothing store. For once I wish there was more traffic. Just Carol needs time to cool down. I want her to say something, but apparently she is done talking.

“Well, there
was
a reason,” I say when we pass Albertson’s Market, which is right next door to Marion Margo School of Ballet, where Elizabeth and Kate go. I look to see if Mrs. MacPherson’s car is there. It isn’t.

“A reason? A reason for what?”

“For why I couldn’t tell my mom to give Pistachio a pill.”

She sighs. “And what was that?”

“If she found out, she’d kill me. She thinks vets are too expensive. She says it’s like pouring money down the drain.”

“So you took him yourself.”

“Yep.” We pass the antiques store with the sign that says Back in 5 Minutes. As long as we’ve lived here, the sign has said this. My father says it’s the longest five minutes in recorded history.

“How did you get there?”

“I walked.”

“How did you pay for it?”

This question takes me by surprise. That’s the trouble with the truth. One true thing leads to another and then pretty soon you’ve told everything. “I didn’t. They were going to bill me and I didn’t write down my address exactly right.”

“You know that’s against the law. It’s like stealing from the vet.”

“It’s not about money. Vets care. They take a Hippopotamus oath when they become a vet, which says they will do their best to look after animals who need them.”

“Hippocratic oath,” she says. “So you brought your dog today—what’s his name?”

“Pistachio.”

“Pistachio, so you could give him his heart pill?”

“Yes.”

We are at my house now. The front yard was all weeds when we moved here, but my mother has been working hard to make it nice. Mr. MacPherson says not to bother, it’s a renter. But my mom can’t stand to have things a mess. I open the car door, but I don’t get out. “So what about next Saturday?”

“I don’t think so,” Just Carol says.

“Oh, come on, I was just taking care of my dog.”

Just Carol looks out the window. Her eyes have a faraway look. “You know, you live in your own little world with your own twisted logic. But the trouble is, you never take anyone else into account. Not the vet. Not me. Not Mary-Judy. Not even your dog…Peanut or whatever his name is. He almost got eaten alive today.”

“But he didn’t. I saved him,” I say.

“You didn’t save him, you were just lucky. Really lucky. You could have lost your arm and your dog.” She blows air out of her mouth. “Which is why it’s not safe to take you to the zoo.”

She is right about this. Pistachio could have been killed. I hold him tight against me to fend off this thought. “So why’d you cover for me with Mary-Judy, then?” I ask as I get out of the car.

“I didn’t cover for you. I covered for me,” she says as she flips the master lock switch and the little button goes down. “And Harrison.”

“Bye, Harrison,” I say, but Just Carol rolls up the passenger side window, so he doesn’t hear me. I am sealed out.

After they’re gone, I cradle Pistachio against my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I say. He licks my eyebrow with his raspy tongue. He is never mad. Not ever. Dogs are better than people. They are.

M
y dad is home for Saturday and half of Sunday, then he has to go back to Atlanta. We won’t do our usual celebration meal, though, because he’s only been gone for a week. Still, my mom prepares a special dinner. She makes some kind of meat dish that looks way too orange. It’s almost Day-Glo, the color of those vests the highway repairmen wear. I don’t think food is supposed to be that color. I don’t think Kate does, either. She has already managed to get my mom to give her extra rice and only a tiny speck of orange gunk all by itself.

I’m in the kitchen. Dad, Elizabeth, and Kate are at the table waiting. “Mom, do you think you could put the orange stuff on the side, please?” I ask as sweetly as I know how.

“The orange stuff?”

“The beef whatever you call it?” I better not make her mad or she’ll ruin my nice white rice by slopping that stuff on it.

“Beef à l’orange,” she says.

“It looks lovely, Mom.” I smile sweetly. “But could you put it on the side…please?”

My mother glares at me. We both know I’m only being nice so she’ll do this. But she’s angry. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because of what happened in Mr. Borgdorf’s office the Tuesday before last. Or maybe it’s something else. She is always mad at me about something. I am always a stone in her shoe.

My mother puts the orange gunk on the side.

“Thank you,” I say, carrying my plate to the table.

“Daddy?” Elizabeth says.

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Did you get to play golf today?”

“No, honey, I had meetings all day.” He smiles at her as if this is the nicest question anyone has ever asked him. Doesn’t he know she’s buttering him up?

“Daddy?” Kate asks. “Did you get to play golf
yesterday
?”

My dad smiles at Kate. “No, sweetie. I had to work then, too. But hopefully soon, I won’t have to work so much.”

“Why?” Elizabeth asks, her neck stiff, her eyes wary.

“I’m just getting my priorities straight. That’s all.” My dad puts his napkin in his lap.

“What does that mean?” Elizabeth asks. I am wondering the same thing.

“Daddy, do you know what? In ballet class I got to do a pirouette,” Kate says.

My father shakes salt on his beef. “When you do
things I can’t pronounce, I know that’s something,” my father says.

My mother laughs.

“And what about you, Little Brown Acorn?” My father takes a slice of bread and butters it. His cell phone rings. He pulls it out of his shirt pocket and pops it open. “Don MacPherson.” He listens for a full minute. It’s quiet, except for the sound of my mom sawing her meat. “Yes, Dave. You know, I just sat down to dinner with my family. Could I call you back?…Uh-huh. Look, Dave…I know for a fact they made their numbers in September. Maybe they weren’t leading the pack, but…All right. I don’t have them in front of me now. Could I call you back after dinner?

“I’m sorry, honey,” my father says. He flips his cell phone closed and slips it into his pocket. His mouth is smiling, but his face is frowning.

Sometimes I wish I worked with my dad. I have been to his office, but it’s just desks and computers and phones and stuff. I don’t get what’s so urgent about it. It seems pretty boring to me.

“What did Dave want?” my mother asks. “Forget Dave. I’m not going to ruin my dinner by talking about Dave. Here I am with my wife, who just happens to be the most beautiful woman in the world. You bet. You bet she is…and my daughters, who are beautiful and graceful and intelligent.” He smiles at us. I like how he says this. It feels as if he loves us, all three the same. “My daughters are going to be famous ballerinas. Oh yes, yes, they are!”

“What about Antonia? Antonia isn’t going to be a famous ballerina,” Kate says.

“What?” My father seems startled.

“Antonia,” Kate says, “she’s not going to be a famous ballerina.”

Elizabeth snorts.

“Elizabeth!” my mother says.

“Antonia, yes, well, she’s a special case, isn’t she.” He nods his head and sucks his lips in as if he’s considering this. “Antonia is going to be…she’s going to be …” He raises his wineglass high. It glistens in a spike of light. He looks at me. He winks. “She’s going to be …”

It feels like the pointy end of a pencil digging in my chest. The longer the pause, the deeper the point goes. I look down at the plastic place mat, which is curling up at the corner. “Antonia is going to be …” He thrusts his glass in the air again, as if the momentum will help him get through this.

“A juvenile delinquent,” Elizabeth offers.

My father’s head drops back and he laughs loud and hard. Not because he thinks this is funny, but because Elizabeth saved him and now he’s covering for himself.

My lungs feel flat, as if no matter how hard I breathe I won’t be able to get air in them. He didn’t even know enough about me to guess. He didn’t know enough to lie.

He takes a bite of his orange meat. “This is wonderful, honey,” he says.

“I’m going to be a zookeeper,” I say. “In fact, I already am one.”

“Ah yes, well, the zoo is a good place for you, Antonia,” my mother says.

I look her full in the face.

“I just mean because you like animals.” My mother smiles her fake sweet smile. My mother likes to sneak mean things into the conversation, then pretend she didn’t mean them.

“As a matter of fact, I already have a job at the zoo,” I say.

“Do not,” Kate says.

“Do, too,” I say. “I’m a zookeeper. A real one. I get to go where nobody except real zookeepers go. Like inside lions’ cages and stuff.” I don’t tell the part about the lion marking his territory, because my mom will think this is gross and then she might not let me go again. Not that I’m going to be able to, anyway, given how mad Just Carol is. “Today I got to feed a giraffe,” I say. “She licked my hand.”

“That is
so
disgusting!” Elizabeth says.

“Sure you did,” Kate says. She rolls her eyes and flickers her eyelids. “And I’ve got ten million dollars in my bank account.”

“Tell them, Mom. Tell them I went to the zoo! I wore rubber boots and a real shirt and everything.”

“Well, I
hope
you wore a shirt,” Elizabeth says.

Mr. MacPherson laughs his short, loud laugh.

“No, a
zookeeper
shirt.”

“Well, I hope you get to keep your shirt,” Kate says.

She looks at my dad and mom. She is so proud she’s come up with this. “Keep your keeper…get it?”

Mr. and Mrs. MacPherson both laugh. His short and loud. Hers more of a giggle.

I hate that they’re doing this. I feel like screaming STOP as loud as I can. “Do you want to see? Because I can show you.” I push my chair back from the table. No one pays attention. They are too busy with their jokes.

I run upstairs to my room and come back with Mary-Judy’s shirt. It says Ziffman Park Zoo on a badge on the side. There’s no doubt this is real.

“See,” I say, breathing hard from the run up and down the stairs. I hold the shirt up and wiggle it at them. “They only give these shirts to real keepers,
who get paid.”
I’m not sure why I add this, but somehow I need to.

“I thought it was a field trip. You’re getting paid?” my mother asks.

“Yes, I am,” I say. I look her straight in the eye.

“How much?” my father asks. Now I have his interest. He likes things that make money.

How much would seem believable, I wonder. Ten dollars? Too much. Two dollars? Not impressive enough. “Five dollars an hour,” I say.

“Really?” He waves a fork full of Day-Glo orange meat.

“You are not getting paid,” Kate says. “I know how much you have.”

“I haven’t gotten paid
yet
, I just started today,” I say.

“I don’t believe you,” my mother says, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

“What else is new?” I say.

“Oh, look, don’t make this my problem.”

I shrug, but say nothing. In an argument, it’s always better when the other person is upset and you stay calm, as if you can’t understand why they’re so aggravated.

“Well, you know, honey,” my father says. “They might have a reason to be paying those kids. It’s cheap labor. With kids, you don’t have to pay benefits and you don’t have to pay a living wage, either. Just enough. Like an allowance, really.”

“I doubt it, Don. There are laws against child labor, you know …,” my mother says.

“Laws, shmaws. Wherever there’s a law, there’s a loophole. That’s Murphy’s Law of government, Evelyn,” my father says.

My mother laughs. She raises her hands as if she’s giving up. “Fine, when you get your first paycheck, I’d like to see it, Antonia,” she says.

Dear Real Mom
,

I don’t want to be a zookeeper when I grow up. And I don’t get paid to work at the zoo, either. I know you know that. But this is okay because it’s only a little green lie. Little green lies are the kind you have to tell to keep safe. It’s like when chameleons change colors to camouflage themselves so predators don’t eat them. No one thinks that’s a lie. Everyone thinks that’s perfectly fine, because otherwise how would they survive.

I know you understand. And I know someone like Just Carol never will. She thinks I should say that I’m really doing well in school, especially in math. Someone like Just Carol thinks it’s so easy to say this. She thinks it makes all the sense in the world to be honest this way. But someone like Just Carol doesn’t understand you can’t go around telling the truth all the time. You have to be careful with it. You can’t waste the truth on people who won’t understand.