5. Never Pet a Burning Dog

There used to be a neighborhood dog I liked. Since I didn’t know his name, the second time he visited I started calling him Easy, after Hugh’s bullterrier. The dog didn’t seem to mind. A mixed breed, he had the color and markings of a cow—brown spot here, white there. Midsized, short haired, calm brown eyes, a real dog dog. He came by once or twice a week on his rounds. A gentleman, he invariably stood at the bottom of the porch steps and waited for me to invite him up. I was always happy to see him. When you are my age you have few visitors.

Usually I would be sitting in the rocking chair with a magazine or book or just my old woman’s thoughts. That’s one of the things I like about this house—it has a good sitting porch where whole chunks of a day can be spent daydreaming and contentedly watching this small district of the universe come and go. My house is just off Beechwood Canyon in Los Angeles. During the day most of my neighbors are away at work and their children are in school, so it is surprisingly quiet and peaceful for a street ten minutes from Hollywood Boulevard. Generally the only sounds are occasional snatches of conversation, the hiss of sprinklers or roar of a leaf blower, and the muted but constant hum and thump of traffic on the Hollywood freeway a mile away. It is a good house in which to be old. One floor, a few rooms, not much work to keep it clean. The porch has a view of a peaceful street and good-natured neighbors who wave or smile when they pass.

Whenever Easy came to visit I would give him two Oreo cookies. He knew that was the limit and even if I had the package with me, he would make no attempt to ask for more. The dog had his dignity and never begged or stared with “gimme more” eyes. I liked that. I also liked the way he sat beside me on the porch for a while after he had slowly eaten his cookies. He was my companion for a small part of his day, and we watched life’s passing parade while I’d tell him what I had been thinking. Who wants to listen to you when you are old? A sympathetic dog is better than an empty chair.

Sometimes odd things happened. Once a bird flew so low that it almost hit him. Once a child fell off its bike directly in front of us. Easy looked at me to see if these things were all right—if the world was still in order. I said, “It’s okay, nothing major,” and he went back to watching or sleeping with his head between his paws. Dogs are here to remind us life really is a simple thing. You eat, sleep, take walks, and pee when you must. That’s about all there is. They are quick to forgive trespasses and assume strangers will be kind.

After I heard that someone had poured gasoline over this dog and set it on fire, I realized I could no longer wait for you. These many years, your coming was the only thing I had left to hope for. I genuinely believed it would happen one day. Although I had no idea what would occur when we met, I’ve thought about it constantly. But after Easy was murdered I realized I had to finish this account as soon as possible because we might not meet before I die. Whether we do or not, this diary will be here to help you. To explain where you really came from. Perhaps that knowledge will save you from some of the awful experiences I have had because not knowing my own history ruined my life.

What is important about the death of a dog when so much else has happened over the years? I can only say it brought the realization it was no longer important whether I continued living or not. I’d thought that moment had come years ago, but I was wrong. Old age arrives like the first days of fall. One afternoon you look up, or smell something in the air, and know instinctively things have changed. I suppose the same thing is true about our own death. Suddenly it’s near enough that we can smell it.

Despite that, I must continue to tell this story. Whether I am still alive or not when you read it, you must know what really happened and why.

Is it possible to properly describe the months right after Hugh and I first became lovers? That means describing happiness, and no words bear the weight of real joy. I can tell you about meals and weekend trips, conversations walking down a street on Block Island in August when the summer air was thick as breath because it was about to rain and the afternoon was suddenly purple everywhere.

Our hearts were always too full. But what does that mean? That each of us had our separate, impossible hopes, which we had brought along like secret extra suitcases.

His small touches on my arm, hair, hand always reminded me of a school of silvery fish that swam up, intensely curious, made contact, then fled at my slightest movement. But I was always moving toward Hugh, not away, and after a while when he touched me his hand would stay.

I have never felt so loved in my life. It made me suspicious at first. Like a turtle, I kept pulling my head back into my shell because I was certain a blow was imminent. But as our bond grew stronger, I left my head out and realized how much I had been missing my whole life.

The great surprise was how quickly we understood each other. Even in the best relationships I’d had, certain things were never communicated or understood. No matter how fluent you are in a language, situations arise that stump you for ways to express exactly what needs to be said. Being with Hugh gave me the words, which in turn helped me to know myself better. Trusting him, I opened up in an entirely new way.

Sexually he was marvelous because he had had so much experience. He admitted that for years women had drifted in and out of his life like incense. His wife knew about many of these affairs but they had come to a truce about them: so long as he was discreet and never brought home any part of these other relationships, Charlotte turned a blind eye. Was theirs then only a marriage of convenience? Did she have lovers too? No. She didn’t believe in affairs and no, the marriage was strong and important.

If that was true, why had he allowed me to come into his apartment?

“Because I was already gone for you by then. Gone like never before. I would have done anything. I broke every one of my rules.”

“Why, Hugh? Why me after all those other women? The way you describe some of them, they were incredible.”

“There’s never a satisfying answer to that. No matter what I say, it won’t assure you or lessen your doubts. Love is like an autistic child when it comes to giving good explanations. Sometimes we love things in others they’re not even aware of. Or they think are ridiculous. I love your purse.”

“My purse? Why?”

“I’ve never seen a woman with such a Zen purse. You keep only the most necessary or beautiful things in there. It says so much about you, all of which I cherish and admire. I love the way you put your forehead against my neck when we sleep. And how you put your arm over my shoulder when we’re walking down the street. Like two pals.”

“You are my pal. My dearest pal. Whenever I write you a letter that’s how I’ll start it—Dearest Pal.”

What did I feel about his wife? What one would expect, made all the more difficult by a quality I liked very much in Hugh: he said only good things about Charlotte, no matter the context. From his description, she was a loving, generous woman who made life better for everyone.

Married people often feel compelled to deride their spouse to a new lover. I knew it from my friends, and particularly from Zoe’s accounts of ex-boyfriend Hector. It makes sense, but it’s neither honest nor brave. We have affairs because we’re greedy. Don’t blame that greed on someone else. People are brilliant at justifying their motives. It’s one of our ugliest talents. Hugh and I wanted each other and were willing to hurt others if it meant the survival of our relationship. There were other explanations and rationalizations, none of them true. We were simply greedy.