What's Mine and Yours(51)

She smoothed Alma’s hair off her forehead and kissed her forcefully, to make her know how much she was loved.

“If you’re going to kiss me like that, you ought to check the blinds first,” Alma said, her voice cool and unforgiving. She left her coffee behind the desk, unlocked the door, and headed out to the yard. Diane didn’t have a chance to call her back before Mrs. Wilkins burst in, carrying her corgi-collie mix, Camille. She was too large a dog to be carried, nearly forty pounds, but Mrs. Wilkins cradled the dog all the same.

“She’s having a terrible morning,” the woman said. “I had to wrestle that leash onto her. And that was after I told her, Miss Camille, we’re going to play. We’re going to your favorite place.”

Alma appeared in the office to clip a leash onto the dog. She led her out without looking at Diane. Diane was rattled as she typed the drop-off time for Camille into the computer.

“You know I’ve been thinking of swinging by to see your mother,” Mrs. Wilkins said.

“That’s kind of you.”

“I’ve been praying for her. And for you, too. I know it’s got to be affecting everybody in the family. That’s how these things go.”

“These things?”

“Cancer.”

“Right.” Another customer swung in with a wide-eyed Pomeranian, and Diane waited for Mrs. Wilkins to slide off to the side.

“I know your mother never has been one for church. I’d have never gotten to know her except for that campaign at the high school all those years ago. Do you remember that? A bunch of us ladies from that time are in the same home group from church now.”

Another customer clanked in, this one a ruddy-faced man with a leaping terrier.

“And how are your sisters? Have they been coming around?”

“Noelle’s here, and Margarita arrives tomorrow.” Diane avoided looking at Mrs. Wilkins and hoped she’d get the message. The customers were starting to line up, and she didn’t want to talk about her sisters at work when they were already swallowing up her life everywhere else.

“You know I follow Margarita online!” Mrs. Wilkins said. “I love her posts. So glamorous. But Noelle I haven’t heard a thing about in years. She’s married, isn’t she? Living off in Atlanta? I’ll tell you, there’s nothing worse than having family all spread out. Your mama is blessed to have you close. I bet she tells you so all the time.”

“My mother isn’t the kind to thank her children for things she thinks they ought to be doing anyway.”

A man in reflective sunglasses and a fishing vest strode in with a tremendous mastiff. A new customer would take much longer to check in.

“You’ll excuse me, Mrs. Wilkins,” Diane said. “I’ve got to help these other customers.”

“Look at me,” she went on. “Holding up the line. Well, if you ever want to come to the home group, you let me know. If there’s any one of you all I can see coming, your mother included, it’s you. You’ve always been such a sweet girl, even when you were little, I could tell—”

Alma marched back into the office and tugged Diane by the arm. “Go on outside,” she whispered. “I’ll handle it.” Diane obeyed and stumbled toward the yard.

A half-dozen dogs were already circling in each pen. It was a hazy, wet morning, the white sunlight just beginning to bear through the clouds. The day was cool and smelled of packed dirt, the still water in the blow-up pools. Diane spread her legs apart in the sod, let the wind sift through her. A few of the dogs ran up to her, and she patted their trunks, sent them off to play. They’d be worn out by noon, crawling into the kennels to rest while the staff refilled the water bowls and handed out their lunch. Dogs were simple, even when they weren’t. The things they wanted were predictable, good: food, fresh air, attention, touch. It was easy to be with them.

Diane had gotten used to no longer being seen as one of the Ventura girls, a small figure in the tableau of her sisters. She had a life in town outside of them, even outside of Lacey May, Robbie and all his trouble. Part of it was Alma, the little existence they’d made together. They had the camp and the dogs, their brick house. At night, Diane worked in the garden while Alma made dinner. Sometimes, they went for drives, to get milkshakes or pick up Q-tips at the supermarket. They used any excuse to zoom around at dusk, under a pink sky with flecks of gold, endless, marred by nothing but the spires of the pines. On their off days, they hiked and drank beers and had sex, and she never tired of Alma’s body, she never tired of Alma, her convictions and her crankiness before her morning coffee, the accent from her Bronx girlhood that surfaced whenever she said water or quarter, the way she’d taught Diane the word jíbara to explain her insistence on composting and herbal deodorant, the way she loved the trees. She talked to Diane in Spanish, even if she only half understood. They had their fights, but nothing ever left a mark, not even Diane’s requirement that she go to her weekly dinners with Lacey May and Hank alone. Alma would stay behind, and when Diane came home again, she could forget about her family, their small disruption in the usual course of her life. But it was different now, with her sisters. Noelle was staying in her house, and Margarita would be soon.

Dusty, one of Diane’s favorite dogs, trotted over to her, her tail wagging. She was a blue nose pit bull, her pelt velvety gray. A meek girl. She had recently been moved to the large pen and was still disquieted by the big dogs’ mouthing and wrestling. Diane squatted down to nuzzle her.