Protecting Marie (18 page)

And she continued to wait.

“Dinner! Oh, Dinner!”

When Fanny saw Dinner's head in the window of Henry's car, her scalp tingled with relief, a sensation that swooped through her, lingering in her fingertips and toes for minutes. She was at the curbside, her hand working the door handle, before Henry had clicked the ignition off. Dinner's wet nose left wavy smudges diagonally across the window. The door flew open and Dinner leaped from the car. Dinner knocked Fanny over onto the crusty snow in the front yard, licking her excitedly.

“I thought you were gone,” Fanny said to Dinner, hiding her face in Dinner's fur. “Forever.” The corners of Fanny's eyes were welling with tears.

Surprisingly, it had started to snow; the sun still shone low in the sky. Flakes as big as
moths were falling.

The idea of Dinner's being taken away hit Fanny all over again, and she broke into tears quietly.

“What's the matter?” asked Henry, hurrying around the car with rolls of paper under his arms like sticks.

Fanny picked herself up off the ground and blinked. She peered at her father through the veil of snow. “I thought you had taken Dinner away. Her afghan and all her special things were missing.”

“Oh, Fanny, I'm sorry that that's what you were thinking. I took Dinner to Stuart's with me. That's all. I left you a note.”

“I know.” But it hadn't been clear to her.

“In, in, in,” Henry said, coaxing Fanny along with a nod. “You'll get sick out here. It's freezing.”

She had no coat on, no mittens, no hat, and suddenly she was aware of the cold.

“Here,” said Henry, “take these and I'll go get Dinner's belongings.” He handed the rolls of paper to Fanny and went back to the car.

Just then Ellen drove up to the house. Fanny watched her parents from the front window. They talked by the cars, their hands fluttering, fingers pointing. They unloaded Henry's car, divided Dinner's belongings, and, their arms brimming (with other things, too—Ellen's purse and Henry's satchel), lugged it all up the sidewalk.

“There you are,” Ellen said to Fanny as she stamped into the house, shaking off snow. She came toward Fanny, leaving mazes of slush on the floor from her boots. Ellen embraced Fanny, breathing into her hair. “Everything's okay now.”

Fanny wasn't so sure yet. “I still don't understand,” she said.

Henry lightly rubbed her shoulder. “I'll show you,” he said merrily. “I'll show you.”

She was resistant to his touch.

Holding one of the rolls of paper as a baton, Henry directed them to the dining room table. He unfurled the roll. It was a charcoal drawing of the interior of a room, done very loosely,
lacking the clarity of Henry's finished paintings. The focal point was a table. A cloth was draped over the tabletop, cascading off one end of it, landing in folds on the floor. Broken dishes and what looked like scraps of food were scattered across the table. And beneath the table, fading into shadow, was Dinner. Triangles—pieces of plates and teacups—surrounded her.

There were more drawings, all of Dinner, under the table or beside the chair from Henry's studio, or lost amid his collection of pots and bowls and vases.

“I've been trying to incorporate Dinner into my painting,” said Henry. “I've been doing these preliminary drawings for weeks. But I couldn't get her to remain still long enough for my needs. I'd forgotten how difficult it is to draw a living thing. So today I took her to Stuart's to have her photographed for reference. He shot about a dozen rolls of film of her in various positions.” Henry paused, then stroked his chin with a charcoal-smeared finger, leaving a dark cleft behind. “I've been
so bored with my work recently, and concerned about having enough for the show in New York. I didn't tell you sooner because I wasn't convinced it would prove successful. I think—
hope
—that this is the breakthrough I've been waiting for.”

Henry let his attention drift back to Fanny. “I took her afghan and toys and dishes with me to make her feel more at home.”

It was all so obvious to Fanny now. Why Dinner had smelled of turpentine. Why she had been dirtied with charcoal dust. Even the X on the sketch of Dinner on Henry's easel made sense. Henry had only been indicating his frustration. The picture hadn't been right. And, of course, Henry had taken Dinner to Stuart Walker's because he was a professional photographer.

“Look at these,” Henry said, pulling some Polaroid photographs out of his jacket pocket and handing them to Fanny. “Stuart also shot these today. I'll use them until he develops the others.”

Although she tried not to show it, Fanny
was exceedingly interested in the photographs. She glanced at them nonchalantly when in fact she wanted to study them carefully. She loved them. They were wonderful: Dinner on her afghan. Dinner nearly concealed by houseplants. Dinner curled up into a tight heap like a cinnamon bun. Dinner extended along the floor as if she were flying, her plumelike tail arced behind her. Dinner sitting with her head tilting off to one side and her gaze tilting off, too, little commas of white outlining her eyes. Every angle. All sides. Awake, asleep.

“She's a star,” Ellen said, as she took her turn with the photographs.

“Dinner was great today,” Henry remarked, rolling up his drawings and snapping one of the rubber bands that bound them. “Great, great, great. I can't wait to get working.”

“What a relief, huh?” Ellen whispered as she slipped past Fanny to the kitchen. “Hooray for small miracles.”

Throughout supper, Henry was blissful and Ellen was placid. And Fanny? Fanny's heart was thrashing, but she tried to sit and eat pret
tily and politely. Her father didn't understand how upset she had been. A hole had been knocked into her life—permanently, she had thought—and he seemed barely to notice. Fanny cleaned her plate, folded her napkin into a tepee, placed it on the table, and asked to be excused.

“Visiting hours tonight?” Henry's voice came from behind the closed door.

“I guess,” Fanny mumbled. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Dinner, her nightgown stretched tightly over her knees. The taut, shallow valley she had formed was sprinkled with pieces of Marie. They reminded Fanny of wilted petals. She picked up a number of them, released them from the height of her chin, and observed them as they dropped to her lap.

Henry sat on Fanny's bed, sinking down, down into the mattress. The springs made a mournful sound.

Watching him, Fanny had the feeling that she was rising slowly through deep water.
And then, before he even spoke, she felt a strong sensation of déjà vu, as if she had been in this very spot, beside her dog, looking up to her pale-eyed, white-haired father, who sat on her bed with the stature of God.

“You were quiet at supper,” said Henry.

“Oh,” was all she managed to say through a weak, close-lipped smile.

“You're still mad at me,” Henry said slowly and thoughtfully, without a trace of his professor voice coming through. “I'm the first to admit that you've had good cause to be mad, many times, but today was no one's fault. I had absolutely no intention of taking Dinner away, so how could I have guessed that that's what you would be thinking?”

Fanny shrugged.

“Your mother told me how upset you were when you came home from school. And for that I'm truly sorry.” Henry paused, waiting, it seemed, for Fanny to say something. When she didn't, he added, “Dinner's really sacked out, isn't she? We played a lot of ball at Stuart's house. With all the land they've got, it
was great fun.” He paused again. “Well . . . at least there was a happy ending.” He stood up to leave. The sigh that flew from his pursed lips was a sigh of defeat.

There was a gnawing inside Fanny's stomach as if a trapped mouse were trying fiercely to work its way out. If only she could say the things she was thinking. What an impossible task! First, she would have to find the right words to describe how she felt, and then she would have to say them in such a way that they wouldn't make him hate her, or, worse, cause him to give up on her, ignore her, compel him to leave again, this time for good.

“You always have to have everything just so, and I'm always trying to make things exactly the way you want them to be,” she blurted out. “I always feel like I have to cover my tracks. Why can't I just be a kid? And why can't Dinner just be a dog?” She went on, “At Mary's, the dogs go on the furniture and no one cares. Jackets are always on the floor by the front door and it's all right. Dishes pile up in the sink and it's not a big deal.”

Wincing, Henry squatted, his back touching Fanny's bed. The joints in his knees and hips were straining greatly; they made the noises to prove it. “I know that I can be a difficult person, but the bottom line is that I love you. No matter what. Everyone has their problems—even fussy adults.” Henry chuckled and smoothed Fanny's comforter. “Maybe Mary complains to
her
parents: ‘Fanny's house is always so clean and it's all right. There are never toys and coats and newspapers strewn about the house and it's not a big deal.'”

Fanny swallowed, ignoring his joke. “You don't under
stand
me sometimes,” she whispered, her voice changing sharply as her emotions rose. “I'm
always
worrying that you're going to take something away from me.”

“Nellie,” said Henry. “Nellie was a special case. I made a mistake, but that doesn't mean it's going to happen again.”

Fanny bent over to kiss Dinner, inching closer to her. “How can I be sure?”

“You just have to be.”

Fanny looked at her father expectantly.

“Listen to me,” said Henry. “You just have to trust me,” he told her loudly and clearly and steadily as if it could only be the truth.

Fanny felt a chill. With her hands in her lap, she spread her fingers and silently counted the things that Henry had taken away from her and the things that had seemed in jeopardy at one time or another. Marie. Nellie. Dinner. Roofball—which he had taught her, then scolded her for playing. Her antique-store coat with the fake leopard-skin collar—“I'll buy you a new coat, no matter how much it costs. That thing is awful. You look deprived in it.”

“What are you doing?” Henry wanted to know.

“Nothing.” Then Fanny collected a handful of the pieces of paper that had once been Marie, her beloved doll. “You tried to take
her
away.”

“What?”

“Marie,” she stated, raising her cupped hand, tipping it toward her father. “Every week you tried to take her away.”

“I don't understand,” said Henry. One of
his eyebrows rose and fell like a wave. “What do you mean?”

Fanny described who Marie was, how much she had meant to Fanny, and how Fanny had tried to hide her week after week after week.

“I don't remember her at all,” said Henry. “I
do
remember Stupid Hunts, but I don't remember Marie.”

“It doesn't matter, she's just a doll.
Was
just a doll.”

“Did Dinner do that?” Henry pointed to the scraps of paper.

“No. I did.”

“Why?”

“It's hard to explain.” Fanny smiled vaguely. “But I guess it worked.”

“Oh,” said Henry, obviously not at all certain what Fanny had meant by her last comment.

“You
really
don't remember her?”

“Not at all,” answered Henry, shaking his head.

Good, thought Fanny. She believed him.

Dinner was lying as flat as a blanket, her tail tucked beneath her. Father and daughter petted her simultaneously. Their fingers grazed ever so slightly.

Then Henry patted Fanny's knee. He hoisted himself up off the floor, and just as he reached the threshold, Fanny spoke again.

“Sometimes I'm afraid of you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. It was the closest she could come to summing it all up. She didn't want him to respond. She had just needed to say it.

Her father turned and walked slowly back to her. An expression of recognition rippled across his face. And Fanny noticed something shift in his eyes. He hesitated briefly. “Sometimes,” he said quietly, almost sweetly, “
I'm
afraid of
you
.”

Fanny squinted at her father in disbelief. “You are?”

He grabbed her hand and kissed it. A fleeting peck, short and quick.

Fanny rose by grabbing on to his arms and pulling herself up with all her might, the tiny
fragments of Marie fluttering to the floor all around them.

They hugged.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded.

And suddenly, in his arms she felt safe, strangely so, because her father, strong, formidable Henry, needed to be hugged just as much as if not more than she did. And she was certain, as certain as she was of anything, that Dinner was safe, too.