The 2 had a moment of dissonance.
Cora explained how she knew this creature, she had met the Friar — hadn’t she? Didn’t they call him “Nip”?—Yes! said Joan — who’d been shot — hadn’t he been shot by the police? — Yes — well she had met Nip and his lovely owner, many times, a gemütlich old gentleman with an Indian companion who rarely left his side. They realized (not fully, though, not yet, and would never really be able to compass it) the astonishing coincidence of it all.
Joan asked if she could come in.
They went to the living room, where, over coffeecake and lattes, she told Cora everything. The dogs sat obediently, as if listening to a bedtime story.
“What a strange life this is!” said Cora, in one of the few genuine instances she would ever have such a complexly simple thought. “My, my, that is a different dog, that Friar! I remember him when he was freshly wounded—I was in the waiting room with Mr P, right on Sepulveda, your dad was there with his ladyfriend. A very pretty woman, in one of those colorful — what do they call them? — saris. But oh, he’s quite a different dog now!”
On cue, Friar Tuck trotted over to lick her hands and face with abandon. The Princess wasn’t far behind (Cora said she had to maintain the tradition of the Ps) — then did the exact same to Joan, as if in goodbye. Again the women laughed, to keep from crying.
“Would you mind if I kept him?” said Cora. “He is a delight. And look how they get along! See how protective he is of my Princess? Besides, my grandkids think Mr Friar Tuck is cool (they call him ‘5 °Cents,’ I’m not sure where that started). I know it sounds awful, but they see him as a ‘gangster’!”
Joan said that would be quite wonderful, suddenly feeling a mild yet fleeting horror over her secret fantasy of having Nip euthanized. She’d gotten the idea from an article in People called “The Angel of ‘Doggy Deathrow.’ ”
“But Cora — if you change your mind, any time, that’s just fine. If he gets out of hand in any way, or for any reason…”
“Don’t you worry, he’ll be perfect. We’re old friends! Aren’t we, Friar? Aren’t we, Mr 5 °Cents? My little Princess needs a companion — she’s been chasing her tail something fierce, and I had the feeling it’s from being lonesome. I’ve been thinking, Oh! I don’t want to have to call that Dog Whisperer again! He’s got far more troubled creatures to deal with!”
Joan gave her the figurine and invited her to the beach house, where they were still settling in. It was important Marj see her old friend.
“You better come visit,” she said, wagging a finger. “I don’t want Mom ‘chasing her tail.’ ”
“I love the beach — my grandkids too.”
“They’re more than welcome, any time.”
“You might regret saying that — you’re going to beat us away with a stick! I’ll bring the sunblock!” she said cheerily.
Joan was glad.
“What will you call her?”
She was nonplussed.
“The little one?” said Cora, nodding at Joan’s belly.
“Well, I don’t know if it’s going to be a girl.”
“Of course it will! Marj would love another girl. What will you call her?”
“I’ve been thinking about Aurora.”
“Rory!” said her hostess, with sparkling amiability.
It was odd, but Joan knew right away it was true — she would have a girl — and she’d always loved that name. Something about those magical Northern Lights (Pradeep once promised to fly them to Alaska for “front row seats”), the evanescent curtain, the rollicking name itself, which spoke inexplicably to her of the Old West and the Midwest too, of Rory Calhoun and Annie Oakley, whoever they were, her dream of who they were, but the lights, it was the lights she remembered, in National Geographic photos, drawings, or children’s book paintings, wonderful fireworked love-letters to our fleeting time on this beautiful world.
THERE was one detail that Cora always thought to reveal during subsequent visits to sandy Point Dume, but always, in the excitement and fussing over Marj, managed to forget.
Friar Tuck had tunneled under the fence that separated her home from Marj’s. Joan was going to sell the property but it wasn’t a priority; only the concrete foundation remained, barely visible, the earth around it wild and weedsprung. At night, the dog would pass through the hole — Stein kept filling it up, to no avail — and fall asleep where Marj’s bedroom used to be. It was the queerest thing. But he wasn’t doing any harm, and as long as her little Princess didn’t follow (she didn’t seem to have the inclination), well, after a while, Cora just thought to let the Friar be. He always came home, early in the morning, sweet-tempered as ever, but not before making a somehow poignant effort to kick clods of dirt to close the gap, as if shutting the phantom domicile’s door for at least another day. Sometimes, in fits of insomnia, and when it was warm enough, Cora looked over from her backyard — there he’d be, bathed in moonlight, in the exact same part of that now invisible house, as if at the foot of the old woman’s bed, sound asleep, like a clerk at a country inn.
The Friar repeated his routine until the lot was finally sold. From then on he no longer roamed, becoming closer to Cora in many ways than even her Princess, whom she still delighted in telling everyone that she loved “more than life.”
E N D
Bombay/Mexico City/Los Angeles, 2006
The Waters of Life
Waters, you are the ones who bring us the life force. Help us to find nourishment so that we may look upon great joy.
Let us share in the most delicious sap that you have, as if you were loving mothers.
Let us go straight to the house of the one for whom you waters give us life and give us birth.
For our well-being let the goddesses be an aid to us, the waters be for us to drink. Let them cause well-being and health to flow over us.
Mistresses of all the things that are chosen, rulers over all peoples, the waters are the ones I beg for a cure.
Soma has told me that within the waters are all cures and Agni who is salutary to all.
Waters, yield your cure as an armor for my body, so that I may see the sun for a long time.
Waters, carry far away all of this that has gone bad in me, either what I have done in malicious deceit or whatever lie I have sworn to.
I have sought the waters today; we have joined with their sap. O Agni full of moisture, come and flood me with splendor.
— The Rig Veda
I was curious. I went for the first time and got addicted. I told my mom I wanted to work the sea and not the fields. And she let me go. She said, “It’s up to you now. If you want to go, go. I’ll be home praying that you have a prosperous future.”
And then I went to sea.
— A young boy, after the Christmas Tsunami
About the Author
Bruce Wagner is the author of Force Majeure; I’m Losing You; I’ll Let You Go, which was a PEN USA fiction award finalist; Still Holding;