Long ago -- a true story

It was the fourth afternoon in a row that I’d turned the corner and found Lynn sitting in shiny red Acura on my driveway. I didn’t really want her there, didn’t know her beyond a few short conversations between church services, indeed had seen her for the first time only three weeks before when she joined the choir, but in her mind somehow we were new best friends. I wanted to tell her that I needed this time to myself, needed to unwind and walk in silence, needed the scratchy trudge of rubber-soled walking shoes across gravel and asphalt scraping away the edges of my sadness and stress – but somehow I couldn’t. So I let her encroach on the one ritual I’d established just for me, the only time I felt at peace.
So we walked -- and she talked. I can’t even say ‘we talked,’ because it wasn’t that. It was an interrogation, sweetened by gushy compliments about my hair, the way I’d played the offertory solo last Sunday, the way she admired my rapport with the choir and its director. Did I know much about his wife? Had I spent time at their house? Were the kids close to their father? She wasn’t always happy with my short, deflecting answers and frequent silences, but then she’d change tack, rattling on about the flowered curtains the decorator had installed in her bedroom, her wine collection, how great it was that she’d found a new friend (me), and her last vacation in Baja. Disjointed, rambling prattle followed by more questions. Always questions. I was uncomfortable, but still I walked.
“Let’s go this way,” she said. “I promised I’d stop by Phil’s house and feed the dog this week.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“My almost ex-husband. Come on.” With that, she stopped prattling and stepped up the pace. I thought about turning around and heading home, but then I pictured the inevitable confrontation in front of the gossiping harpies in the choir and decided to continue. I needed the job, both for the extra income and because it filled the hours and I didn’t have to think.
One more walk and I’ll tell her, I told myself. One more walk and to hell with what anybody says or thinks.
I stayed a few steps behind; focusing on the spackled, glittering bits of sunlight filtered through the line of purple jacaranda trees separating the street from the gully and railroad track. A dingy paneled truck sped past, tires spewing a cloud of dust and gritty bits of dirt across my path. I dragged the back of my hand across a tiny dribble of sweat beading my forehead, resenting everything: the truck, the heat, the walk, and the woman dragging me into her drama.

Phil’s house smelled of overripe bananas and wet dog, stagnant air and the stench of musty tobacco. I watched her pick up and examine the scattered envelopes and circulars littering the polished wood floor of the foyer. Lynn ignored the excited leaps and yips of the wiggly-bottomed black mutt, sometimes shoving his nose aside to grab another piece of mail, not saying a word to either of us as she studied every envelope, pocketed a few, and then dropped and scattered the stack.
I followed her into the house, pausing to slip off my dirty shoes before stepping into the carpeted living room.
“No need,” she said, grinning at me as she ground her own dirty shoes in little circles over the abandoned mail.
The dog sniffed my empty shoes before sitting down and turning his damp nose and stubby-prickly whiskers into my right knee. I patted the space between his straight-up ears and then bent to scratch the fur between his front legs as I murmured doggie nonsense in his ear. He sighed and lolled harder against my side.
“Come on, let’s get this over with,” Lynn called from somewhere in the house.
I heard a door slam, water rushing from a faucet, the sound of rustling paper. The dog licked my hand and trotted towards the noise, so I followed him through a living room decorated in muted shades of blue and yellow, past a wall of sliding glass reflecting the blue shimmers of the pool outside. The dog’s toenails clicked staccato patterns on the flagstone tiles.
Silence.
“Lynn?” Should I follow? I hesitated in the doorway, wondering at the difference between the chattering, intrusive woman ruining my peace and this silent, frankly scary alternative.
“Shit!”
Something crashed to the floor, the dog yelped, and Lynn slammed past me. I staggered, grabbing the doorframe as she rushed through the house and onto the street.
I stood there for a moment, thinking that this was some rude joke and she’d come running back inside the house, laughing at what she’d pulled over on me.
Apparently not.
I heard the rattle of the dog’s collar as he licked something, heard the insistent beep of a still-open refrigerator door, and the sound of metal scraping on tile. I turned the corner and stepped into the kitchen.
The dog was busy exploring the broken shell of an Easter basket, licking pink frosting from a sugared egg as his claws pulled the cellophane off a chocolate bunny. I hurried to snatch the lethal candy out of his mouth and off the floor, pulling him by his collar to the safety of a small half bathroom before grabbing a trashcan and cleaning up the mess.
I spent almost an hour picking up green plastic strands of Easter grass, foil-covered chocolate eggs, pastel jelly beans and jagged pieces of broken glass, mopping the floor and searching the cabinets for substitute bowls big enough to hold water and dry kibble. The dog whined and scratched at the closed bathroom door, but I couldn’t let him out until I was sure everything was cleaned up and he wouldn’t be hurt.
The two of us slouched on the front doorsill for another hour before one of the neighbors pulled into her driveway. I didn’t know quite what to say, but ended up telling her that Lynn had gotten ill and left the house before giving me the key to lock up. She seemed to accept my explanation – I don’t know why. Perhaps she’d witnessed other outbursts, perhaps she was tired herself and wanted only to go inside her own home and shut the world out, perhaps –
Doesn’t matter. She waited while I hugged the dog and whispered a last goodbye in his ear, then used the key Phil left with her for just such emergencies to relock the door.
I walked home.
Lynn married a newly arrived, recently divorced minister about four years after I decided to listen to my own soul instead of picking up after others.
I never learned the dog’s name. I wish I had.