Leo curls a lip. This is the first warning sign.
“I’m going to pet it,” the boy insists. He has dark brown hair with a side part and navy-blue sneakers. He really is very determined.
Leo growls. Second warning.
“Nice doggy,” says the boy.
Leo lunges.
“Move back!” Mae shouts to the boy. She keeps her grip on the leash, which is attached to Leo’s harness, and braces herself. Mae is the smallest of the Shipman sisters and the second fittest (Jordan wins). Mae rock climbs and hikes and has been living at altitude for three years now. Last year, she ran a half-marathon to raise money for pancreatic cancer research.
The boy moves back, but not as far as Mae would like. Does this child have an adult with him? Yes, and here she comes, striding across the parking lot, all bleached-blond hair and quivering rage. She’s holding a cell phone and a set of car keys; she’s wearing a shortpleated skirt that makes her look like a tennis player just off the court, but there are no courts at La Quinta. No doubt it’s a fashion thing.
“Did this lady yell at you, Matthew?” she demands of the boy.
By this time Mae has pulled an emergency sow’s ear (not a euphemism, unfortunately) out of her treat pouch and tossed it for Leo, who gives it his full attention and no longer cares about the boy.
Mae grits her teeth and says, “You should teach Matthew to ask before petting a dog he doesn’t know.” Matthew nods respectfully and his brown saucer eyes land on Mae’s. Lesson learned! She feels momentarily accomplished.
“You don’t have to be rude about it,” says the mom, and now Mae feels chastised.
“I’m not being rude. I’m being careful.”
“That dog should be put down.”
Leo turns from his treat to look sharply at Mae. Dogs understand more than we give them credit for. She gives him a smile she hopes comes off as reassuring.
Out of the corner of her eye she spies a man near her car, looking in the windows. She sprints over, holding the leash tightly, away from Matthew and his angry mother. Leo, excited by the change in pace, unbothered by the humidity, sprints too. She has so many things in that car. Did she lock it when she got Leo’s food out? She can’t remember. It doesn’t matter—the sight of Leo running toward him at full speed is enough to move the man along. Mae fills Leo’s water bowl, watches as he gulps it, pictures his bladder filling up again, wonders how long they can make it before he has to stop again. A ten-month-old dog has the bladder control of a college girl in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day.
“Ready, boy?” she says, when Leo is loaded into the back seat.
Leo seems to indicate with a tip of his head that he’s ready.
“Because we’ve got miles to go before we sleep.”
Sunday
Interstitial
Natalie’s phone starts blowing up with notifications about two hours into the drive from Hillside Haven. She tries to glance at it surreptitiously, but Evangeline, always vigilant, catches her.
“No phone, Mommy,” she says primly, then purses her lips and shakes her head.
“I wasn’t,” says Natalie, although she definitely was. (What if it’s an emergency? What if something has happened on the farm—what if a cow has discovered a piece of broken fence and gotten out, or one of the farmhands had a big Saturday night in town and failed to show up to work? What if the barn has caught fire?)
Like a beacon of hope, along comes a sign for Natalie’s favorite rest stop, two miles away. They left Shaftsbury with a full tank, and the car isn’t on empty yet, but she’ll pretend she needs gas so that she can check her phone; even Evangeline might not be sharp enough to cop on to that.
She signals and pulls off the highway and into the rest stop, which is built to resemble a Main Street of yesteryear, with a fifties-style diner, an old-fashioned doughnut shop, a roadside market.
Scarlett’s eyes snap open, and from the third row she asks, “Are we getting out?” Scarlett is a sometimes-tempestuous four, a middle child through and through. Natalie, as the middle child herself, can say this. Caspian, the baby (so far), will be two next month. He’s a man of few words, but those he does utter have particular meaning.
“Out,” he says, and bangs on the window.
“I’m just getting gas,” says Natalie. “Nobody needs the bathroom, right?” Scarlett and Evangeline shake their pretty heads (matching braids, ribbons at the ends).
“Meee,” says Caspian, who can’t possibly, because he still wears diapers. (He’s also wearing his Carhartt bib overalls, a small version of those his father wears on the farm. Caspian is effortlessly casual.)
The dog, Cinnamon (golden retriever, red bandanna, long pink tongue), remains asleep between Evangeline and Caspian.
