The Worst Thing I've Done (25 page)

Her eyes are hollow like she's not in there anymore.

“Annie? Annie!”

Waves jab at the snow. An edge of white for a few seconds. Then sand, brown and wet.

“How about a flying Brussels sprout, Annie?”

“So I don't give a flying Brussels sprout.”

“Get up!” I hold out one hand to her. “Now! Or you'll freeze your big butt.”

Annie takes my hand. Scrambles up. And back into her eyes.

I slap snow from her fleece pants.

“You can ask me about our parents…anything you want to ask, Opal.”

“I know stuff about them you don't know.”

“I'm so…very glad for you.” Annie slips her hands through the straps on the ski poles.

“From Aunt Stormy.”

“I'm so glad for you both.”

“Did you know that my father walked faster than anyone else?”

“Good. So let's keep moving.”

We stay on the snow. On our right the water and sand. On our left sand and another edge of snow, frazzled from when the tide was high.

“My father walked twenty miles every day, Annie.”

“That's a lot. Keep moving.”

“My mother had a dog in Germany when she was little.”

“Her family had a cocker spaniel. Brigitte. A brown and white cocker spaniel.”

“You know my mother's dog?”

“From stories. But when I was little, I used to pretend Brigitte was my dog.”

Annie pretends too?

Wind blows through me, but it doesn't get me cold.

“I guess you inherited me, Annie.”

“We inherited each other.”

“Pretty soon you'll only be my sister.”

“All right with me…once you're eighteen.”

“And then I won't need you as a mother anymore.”

“I can't do this without you, Opal.” Her eyes push at me.

“Do what?”

“Be a family.”

It's taking forever, getting to the big rocks where the seals are supposed to be.

“You can call me your child,” I tell her.

“Hallelujah and then some.”

“Because I
am
a child.”

“Should I be dancing?”

“And since you are taking care of me, you can say
my.
Like in
my child.
”

“I'll do that.”

This is real. As real as sliding one ski ahead of the other. As real as snow all around us like white foxes. Or weasels. Or the white bellies of bottom fish. As real as, suddenly, Annie singing. Singing without words, her back to me. Like wind singing. As real as those seals—

“Look look, Annie!”

“They're huge,” Annie cries out.

“Like ponies.”

“Yes, like ponies.”

The seals' heads are like dogs' heads. Almost. But their bodies are bigger. Much bigger. And limp like sacks of potatoes. But not lumpy. Smooth like big, big slugs. They slouch across each other, those seals. Melt into one another on those rocks, crusty with shells and salt.

“Three of them there”—Annie points to the gray water—“swimming.”

“Where?”

“Those big balls moving—”

“Where, Annie?”

“They're much faster in water than on land. Over there now—where the water is swirling. Each head like the top of a bowling ball.”

And now I see them. “But they're darker than the water.”

“Yes.”

“And when they're on the rocks, they're lighter than the water.”

“Because their fur is drying.”

“Can you eat seal, Annie?”

“Eskimos eat seal.”

“Good.”

One seal pulls itself from the waves onto the largest of the rocks.

But another seal blocks its way. Roars and lifts its head so that its back curves like a banana.

When it chases the new seal off the rock, the entire clump of seals ripples.

A
UNT
S
TORMY
and Pete drive to a moving sale in Noyack to look for a sewing machine and more dishes for her business. But they bring back a dog. He's for free to a good home. And he already has a name.

“Luigi…” Pete's voice is baby-talk. “Come and…meet Opal.”

Luigi's eyes are almost all white. That's how he rolls them when he crawls backward. Away from us. He's only up to my knees. But the white shows the red around his eyes, makes him look nutty.

“Luigi?” I kneel down to make myself little.

His nails scratch the floor as he stuffs his butt into the corner.

If he could get away through the wall, he'd do that.

I hold out my hand. “Luigi?”

“Don't be scared, Luigi.” Annie squats next to me. “Why are they giving him away?”

“They've bought an apartment in the city.” Aunt Stormy spoons dog food into a dish. “We said we'll try him out. Take him home for a week so you and Opal can be part of the decision.”

“I don't want to try him out. I want to rescue him,” I tell her.

“We'll see. I've been thinking about getting another dog…after Agnes, for a while now. And I like mutts so much better than those overbred dogs.”

“Mutts have…better…dispositions.”

Luigi is breathing fast. In and out and in and out. The fur on his skinny sides going in and out. Like he's been running a marathon.

Aunt Stormy sets his dish down by the sink.

We all step away to let him go there and eat.

He whimpers. His fangy little teeth show. But he doesn't move. Just watches us with his white eyes.

We step away even more. Pete doesn't need to touch the wall anymore. Just walks close enough to the wall to catch himself if he has to.

Luigi comes out of the corner. A few steps.

“He's sniffing the air,” I whisper.

“He's obviously hungry,” Annie says.

“Luigi…?” With one foot, Aunt Stormy moves the bowl toward the dog. “This is so good. Come and eat. Luigi?”

“Move it…closer…Stormy.”

She does.

Luigi scurries back. Shaking and panting, he stretches his nose and neck toward the bowl. But his tail stays pressed in the corner.

“He's hungry,” Annie says, “but afraid to eat.”

“Let's leave him…alone. Out…we'll go out.”

“Let's go into my bedroom,” Aunt Stormy says.

After we close the door, there's jingling from the kitchen.

“I bet it's the name tag on his collar hitting the bowl,” Annie says.

W
HEN THE
jingling stops, we return. Luigi's bowl is in the living room. Empty. He must have licked it all the way there.

But he's cowering in that same corner.

“Good dog,” I tell him. “Good licker.”

“Maybe that can be his corner for the time being,” Aunt Stormy says.

The next morning we buy Luigi a bag of dog food with the picture of a puppy on it.

When I set his food dish and his water in the corner, he runs off and hides behind the velvet couch.

Twice, he comes close to the dishes, only to back off.

Suddenly I know why. “I bet those moving sale people kicked Luigi. When he was eating.”

“You may be right,” Aunt Stormy says.

“Because the not-eating happens when his back is turned to us. Or to the room.”

“So if we put his food and water out from the wall, he can get behind them,” Annie says, “and keep his back to the wall.”

I take his dishes, move them away from the corner. Once again, we go into Aunt Stormy's bedroom.

The jiggling again, then.

And he is eating when we come out. Eating cautiously, eyes rolled up.

That's how he eats every day. With a clear view of everyone.

When I take him outside, he stays so close that his nose bumps against my legs.

We buy him a doggie bed. Round and stuffed with cedar chips. When he puts one paw on it, it rustles. He yelps. Runs away. Returns and circles it.

“Afraid of anything unfamiliar,” Annie says. “Poor thing.”

After three days Luigi starts sleeping on the doggie bed.

A
UNT
S
TORMY'S
favorite vet is on Shelter Island.

She takes me along on the ferry. It's tilting and cutting through the ice. Crunching.

When the vet lifts Luigi onto the silver table, he tries to scramble away, toenails clicking.

But the vet holds on to him. “Good trick, little fellow,” he tells Luigi.

“He doesn't even let us brush his hindquarters,” Aunt Stormy says. “Try not to touch him from above.” The vet's hands are quick and gentle. Even when he gives Luigi a shot.

“Luigi is our dog now,” I tell him.

“He's lucky. Now remember, when you approach Luigi, only touch his head from beneath.”

“Why?”

“It'll help him get more confident. He's had a rough time so far in his little life. And he considers you the alpha dog. Get on the floor with him. Nose to nose. So he'll feel at the same level.”

I bend my knees till my nose is across from Luigi's.

“Good. Like that,” the vet says.

I snake my hand along the cold table. Up Luigi's legs. Cuddle the front of his neck.

“Yes, like that,” the vet says. “You're good with him.”

When we walk to the truck, catbriers hang like veils from high branches, glittering with frozen rain. A necklace of pearls. I didn't know they could be beautiful.

“Now we don't have catbriers anymore,” I tell Aunt Stormy.

“I try to get them all,” she says.

Wind grabs me. Makes me dizzy. I laugh.

When we take the ferry back, it's almost dark. Spooky. The crunching through the ice is louder.

“I bet Mason would kayak in the ice,” I say.

“It's far too dangerous.”

“He could wear one of your wet suits.”

I have a photo of Mason and Aunt Stormy in wet suits. They posed on the boardwalk. Afterward, Aunt Stormy said she hated the feel of the thick rubber. “Toe to hair panty hose, armor style.” But Mason said, “I like the way they feel snug-like.”

In the dark, whiteness of broken ice.

Whiteness of stars.

I bet it's like that where Eskimos live.