Ruth’s mother leaned back in the rocker, her lipstick freshly applied, her purse on her lap, the tremor in her left hand constant. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
Ruth gripped the porch railing. The sky was drained of color, and the still, close air bore down on her. “After I begged you for a dog for years, you decide to get one now?”
“I was working full-time. I was raising you. Getting a dog then was too much.”
Too much. A lot of things then were too much.
“Ruthie, it’s supposed to rain, and I want to get back before we get sopping wet. Let’s go to the dog shelter.”
Ruth walked into the house and let the screen door slam. The blinds were tilted against the heat, and the living room was cool, the sofa and chairs sleeping in the dim light. In the kitchen, the smell of coffee hung in the air. The same percolator on the counter, the same toaster that only toasted in one slot, the same scrap paper by the telephone with its penciled list: sour cream, beets, shoe polish, ironing. Several shards of china were scattered beneath the baseboard, and an ache shot through Ruth at the sight of them. She was sweeping them into the dustpan when her mother parked her purse on the kitchen table.
“If you still want a dog, you can get one too.”
“Last time I was here, you dropped the butter dish.”
“Good riddance. I never liked that pattern.”
Ruth had to hand it to her mother. She had elevated denial to an art.
“Mom, what happened at the...
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