One Dog Happy

Alewives

56 Allison was the death of things. She took the class hamster home for spring vacation, and her dog knocked over its aquarium and killed it. A month later, she let this same dog outside without closing the fence in the yard; it ran out onto the highway and got hit by a car. “Allison, Allison,” her father would sigh, shaking his head. Her grandfather, before he had moved to Florida, had said her name in the same way, only after he said it, he would take her on his lap. “Do you know why I tease you?” he’d ask. “Because I like you. That’s why.” But Allison’s father never told her that. Allison left her guitar on the floor of the foyer, and her mother Alewives A l e w i v e s 5 7 tripped over it and broke her leg. She got a cast with a flat disc on the bottom that reminded Allison of the Chinese bound feet she had seen in a PBS special. In the special, the Chinese women walked on these discs in short steps, like dainty wind-up dolls, but Allison’s mother lumbered heavily, heaving her cast leg forward , then dragging her good one after it, her large arms swinging in violent accompaniment. She was lumbering like this into the kitchen now, to get ready for company. “Should we make dessert?” she yelled to Allison’s father, who was sitting in the living room with Allison. Allison’s father folded back a page of his magazine. “Should we make dessert?” she yelled again. “Do what you want,” he mumbled. “Well, are they dessert eaters?” Her father didn’t answer. “Do they eat dessert?” she asked. Allison went into the kitchen and ducked under her mother’s legs, which were planted in front of the open refrigerator. She grabbed a bunch of celery from the crisper, took it to the sink, and began washing it with orange antibiotic dish liquid and a vegetable brush. “We wouldn’t know!” her mother proclaimed to the open refrigerator . “They never have us over!” She pushed the door shut and lumbered to middle of the room. There she made a small grunt and bent over, leaning her elbows on the kitchen island and breathing heavily. “She doesn’t cook!” yelled Allison’s dad. “Who doesn’t cook?” “She doesn’t!” “Yes, but who doesn’t cook?” “Some people don’t cook!” Allison had taken a knife and was filling the celery—generously —with peanut butter. “Good God,” said her mother, “is that all for you?” Allison put the celery on a plate and went to the living room, where she sat by her father and began to eat. “Allison,” he said, “do you have to chew so loud?” It tasted terrible anyway, so she dumped the rest in the wastebasket. 58 A l e w i v e s Then she sat back on the sofa and watched the News Hour while her father removed Wine for Dummies from the bookshelf, put it in a drawer, and rearranged the books that remained, standing back a few times to look at them. When he finished, he shifted Allison’s current school picture behind an older one, in which she was very little and playing dress-up in a pair of high-heeled shoes. Then he disappeared upstairs. The poet laureate came on the News Hour and started to recite something. “Are you watching that?” her mother yelled. “Yes,” answered Allison. “Where’s your father?” “Upstairs,” Allison said. “Then shut it off,” said her mother. “It’s giving me a headache .” Allison went upstairs to her little brother’s room and peeked inside. He’d been put to bed an hour ago and was breathing deeply. One of his arms hung out of the crib slats, and his Teletubby nested in the crook of the other. Allison left, got the camera from the den, then snuck back in and took a picture of him. When the flash went off, he sat up and started crying. Allison pulled the door shut quickly and replaced the camera. Then she joined her mother downstairs at the breakfast nook where she was seated, peeling onions. “Why’s the baby up?” said her father, as he came downstairs. He was wearing a new shirt and his hair was still wet. Allison could smell his soap from the...