Protecting Marie (5 page)

“Yeah, Mom,” Fanny said. She sprang from the floor with Nellie and came over to her mother and father. Nellie nuzzled against Fanny's shoulder, and Fanny nuzzled against her parents. Fanny echoed her father in a whisper, “A small price to pay for all this happiness . . .”

The first night she belonged to Fanny, Nellie cried. Fanny heard her and plucked her from her crate and took her to bed with her. As Fanny petted her and watched her relax and fall asleep, she knew that happiness was not exactly what she felt. This was better. She had never experienced this feeling before. For a moment she thought she might burst, and then as she drifted off to sleep, she felt enveloped by such warmth that she thought she might never wake up.

Raising a puppy was a lot of work, but
Fanny was ready for it. And since it was summer, she had all day to devote to Nellie. Fanny's friend Mary Dibble helped. And so did Ellen, who used part of her vacation time from work to stay home to get Nellie off to a good start. Ellen was a book designer at the University of Wisconsin Press. For the first few days, Henry helped, too. He'd coax Nellie to the backyard so she wouldn't pee in the house. He'd walk her to the corner and back. He'd lie on the floor to give her ear massages. And he drove Fanny to the pet store to buy an immense sack of puppy food and several rubbery toys that whined when you squeezed them.

But then Nellie sneaked up to Henry's studio and peed on his Oriental rug. Twice. Nellie chewed on the legs of the dining room table. Nellie chewed on the legs of Henry's antique Cromwellian chair. Nellie had diarrhea all over the sun porch. Nellie continued to cry at night. Nellie growled at Henry and ran in circles about his feet. Nellie dug and dug and dug. Nellie nipped and nipped and
nipped.

“They're just puppy things,” said Fanny.

“I'm trying,” said Henry. “I'm really trying. But look at my chair. It's irreplaceable. And it's ruined. And then there's my rug . . .”

“Please, don't yell at her
now
,” said Fanny. “She won't understand.”

“Damn it, she's tearing around the garden again,” said Henry. “I will
not
eat lettuce that's been peed on.”

“Give her a chance,” said Fanny. “Please.”

“Get her off the couch,” said Henry. “Now!”

“I'm sorry,” said Fanny. “But just because you had a bad day painting—”

“I don't want her running around under the porch,” said Henry. “Good God, does she ever stop barking?”

“She's a
puppy
, Henry,” said Ellen.

“I know,” said Henry.

“He's your
father
, Fanny,” said Ellen.

“I know,” said Fanny.

“This isn't working,” said Henry.

“She'll grow out of it,” said Fanny.

“She's driving me crazy,” said Henry.

“I'll die if you take her away,” said Fanny.

“I can't paint at home anymore,” said Henry.

“I thought this might happen,” said Ellen.

Fanny threw a plastic cup against the wall. Henry slammed doors.

“I admit,” said Henry, “I didn't know anything about dogs. Puppies. I thought that by now, by the time school started for you, that she'd be better. I thought that it would be fine for me to paint at home with her around on the days I don't teach. But I can't. I just can't. I can't get anything done when I'm home alone with her.”

“It's not fair,” cried Fanny. “This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me.”

“I know, I know,” said Ellen. “Of course I love her. But I love your father more. Adults make mistakes, too, you know. He's wrong, sweetie, but he's human. He made an awful mistake.”

It was late August when Fanny wrote the ad for the newspaper:

The ad included Fanny's phone number. By listening carefully to the people who called, Fanny chose Nellie's new owners. They were a young couple who lived on a farm outside Madison. The night they came to pick her up, Fanny made a pile of all Nellie's belongings near the front door. She waited on the couch with Nellie curled up beside her. It was forbidden for Nellie to be on the couch, but Henry said nothing. Fanny had sobbed for so long that her eyes were sore and swollen.

“Will I ever see you again?” Fanny whispered.

Nellie sighed. Her tail curved into a sleek question mark.

Fanny liked the couple immediately—and Nellie seemed to like them, too. She scampered between the man and woman, sniffing
their well-worn jeans and boots as if they held the most wonderful smells in the world.

The man wrote directions to their farm on a scrap of paper. “You can visit any time,” he said. “Feel free.”

“We'll keep the name,” the woman said. “Nellie—it's nice.”

Fanny watched them drive away in a pickup truck. Nellie sat on the woman's lap like a miniature child wearing a black cap with earflaps. For a moment, Fanny longed for the man to be her father.

Now, on this cold winter night, alone in the kitchen, thinking about Nellie and wondering what Henry could have meant by giving her the statue of the dog, Fanny grew angry again. She tiptoed to the living room to get her balloon. Then she took a piece of paper from beside the telephone and wrote,
At this very moment I don't understand my father and would like a new one. If you're interested, please reply.
Fanny wrote her initials and her address on the paper, tied the note to the ribbon that
was attached to the balloon, and walked to the back door. She opened the door a crack and sniffed the cold air. Fanny stretched and poked her head out completely, keeping her feet as far inside as she could. Her toes were ice cubes.

It had stopped snowing, but the air was still thick, the sky still light. Although it was the middle of the night, it seemed like dawn to Fanny. All around, the sky was apricot colored; it peeked through the branches of the bare trees like fragments of stained glass. Everything appeared to be so peaceful outside. But nothing was peaceful inside Fanny.

Fanny hesitated for a moment, then let the balloon go. It wafted upward slowly, then got caught in a sudden gust of wind and was swept away quickly. Fanny watched the balloon without blinking. First it looked like a kite. Then it looked like two birds—one big, one small—far, far away. And then it looked like nothing at all but part of the mottled sky.

T
he trees were heavy with snow; fist-sized clumps sat among the branches like white nests. Even the most slender twigs were marked with little pills of snow. Fanny stood at the window, squinting. She had known instantly when she woke up that she wasn't in her own room, because sunlight was pouring in through the windows. She could feel the
heat on her face, feel the brightness make her eyelids flicker and hesitate. Her own room had only one small window and was in the rear, northwest corner of the house, where mornings were dull and dark in comparison to this.

Before Fanny had risen and stretched, she had reached out to touch the empty space beside her on the futon. It had been cold. She wondered how long her mother had been up. She wondered what time it had been when she, herself, had actually fallen back asleep last night after wandering about the house. And she wondered what time it was now.

As Fanny glanced out at the neighborhood, she realized that it had snowed several more inches since she had launched her balloon out the back door. If she remembered correctly, the trees had only been dusted with snow then. Fanny tilted her head and lifted her eyes. She searched the treetops and sky. The sky was a brilliant blue and endless. She almost had to laugh to herself—the idea of her balloon seemed silly now. Childish. Why did everything have such a different slant to it in the
morning? Mornings were hopeful. Night—especially the deepest part of night after you awaken suddenly—seemed to intensify worries and troubles. Everything small became large. Everything bad became worse.

“Morning, sunshine,” Ellen called. She emerged from the shadows of the dining room into the light of the living room, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. “Or should I say, sleepyhead?”

Fanny turned from the window with a start. “Morning,” she answered in a froggy voice.

After setting her coffee down on the end table, Ellen gave Fanny a hug. Fanny noticed a sprinkling of white on her mother's maroon sweater. At first she thought it was snow.

“Oh,” Ellen said, looking downward. “It's flour.” She flicked it off as best she could. A faint halo remained.

“What time is it?” Fanny asked.

“About ten-thirty.”

“I can't believe I slept so late,” Fanny said. She was usually out of bed by seven o'clock, whether it was a school day or not. Fanny
could tell that Ellen had been up for some time. She had showered; she was dressed; and she had washed her hair. Ellen's ponytail was shiny and smelled sweet, of almond shampoo.

“Help me move the futon back,” Ellen said.

To the angry twang of springs extending and compressing, they pushed and pulled and maneuvered the frame back into its upright position.

“I hate that sound,” Fanny said, flinching.

“I know.”

“I always think something's going to snap and break.”

“Me, too.”

Ellen punched the futon into shape and scattered the throw pillows across it from armrest to armrest. Then Fanny and Ellen carried the coffee table back to its proper place, shoved the couch and chairs back, too. They folded the sheets and blankets they had used last night and piled them neatly with the pillows from their bedrooms on the stodgy corduroy chair.

Ellen grabbed her coffee from the end table
and settled into one end of the couch. “Sit,” she said.

Fanny yawned. She sank into the couch next to her mother, drawing her legs under her, leaning back on her heels. She yawned again. “That smells good,” she said, meaning the coffee.

“Have some,” Ellen offered, passing the mug to Fanny.

The coffee was hot, but not too hot, and it tasted wonderful. Ellen drank her coffee with a little bit of sugar and lots of cream. After several long, noisy sips, Fanny handed the mug back to Ellen. “How long have you been up?” she asked.

“Since about six-thirty.”

“Six-thirty?”

Ellen nodded.

“I didn't keep you from doing what you wanted to do, did I?”

“No, no. Not at all. In fact, I took the birthday decorations down and I shoveled the front walk and I made cookie dough—as you can see.” Ellen brushed her sweater again. “I
wrapped a few presents, too. You,” she said, smiling broadly, “were sleeping
so
soundly. I'm surprised you didn't wake earlier from all the racket I was making. I came to check on you several times. You were dead to the world.”

Fanny shrugged. It seemed strange to Fanny that she could have slept through her mother's early morning bustling—the
whir
of the electric mixer, the
grrrrr
of the coffee grinder, the scrape of the shovel against the sidewalk—and yet, the tiniest whisper could keep her awake at night, cause her heart to pound until her heart itself pounded in her ears as loudly as a window slamming.

“Did anything else happen while I was asleep?” asked Fanny. “Did he . . . anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Oh,” whispered Fanny.

“Well,” said Ellen, “you must have needed it—your sleep.”

“I guess.” Fanny didn't feel like telling her mother about last night.

“The cookie dough is in the fridge. Why
don't you get dressed and have something to eat? Then we can bake.”

Fanny rose from the couch. “I'll be right down,” she said. She started up the steps, then reached back and grabbed the newel post, facing Ellen. “What kind should we bake first?” she asked, kicking her leg out. Her foot was arched and her toes were pointed like a ballerina's. “Cutouts? Chocolate-chip drops? Or . . . rum balls?”