John told me this story not long before he asked me to marry him, and sometime later that same year his parents visited us, passing through Chicago for a night on the way to somewhere else. Over celebratory drinks, while John and his father huddled together at the bar, I asked his mother about Rabbit. Was it hard for John to lose her? Did they ever think about getting another dog?
She grimaced while I recounted an abridged version of the tale, then took a sip of her gin and tonic. I could see her holding it on her tongue to give herself a chance to think before answering.
“He told you that?” she finally asked.
“Yes.” Her tone surprised me. “He got very emotional. Why? Does he not usually tell that story?”
“Well, honey, let me ask you.” She put her hand over mine. Manicured nails, white French tips. “Do I look like a woman who’s lived on a farm?”
I sat back, my spine straightening with a crack. We’d never visited John’s hometown, so I hadn’t seen his house firsthand, his neighborhood or childhood bedroom. But what had I imagined? To be honest, not the dried birds’ nests and pine cone collections of a country boyhood. His father was a cellist. His mother a socialite, masquerading as a stay-at-home mom. Not exactly the type of people to pick up a coonhound pup.
“No.” I was breathless. John’s mother threw her head back and laughed.
“Let me give you a piece of advice, honey,” she said. “John likes telling a tall tale from time to time, but he’s not really good at it. Always pushes things a little over the edge, you know. For atmosphere. That’s how you can tell.”
“So no dog?”
She waved her hand and picked the lime off the side of her drink, tossing it in among the ice cubes.
“Pug. Ugly little thing he begged for. But it got hit by a car after a couple of years, and no one was too sorry.” She smiled. “Doesn’t make for quite the same effect, does it?”
Why did he tell me that? I remember leaning in towards his words, elbows grinding crystals of sugar into the tabletop. It must have meant something to him, or else he’d have laughed to see my face so earnest and interested. Maybe I asked a question about his childhood and he didn’t have an honest answer he thought would hold my attention. Or maybe it was simple inspiration: a dog walked by outside, healthy and smiling with the heat of July. Why not?
When I come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, John is dancing with Kara in the living room, slowly shifting his hips and shuffling his feet, adding the occasional moonwalk. His romance with her grows daily more intense. Sometimes he holds her out in front of him, cradling the back of her head where the skull is still knitting together beneath the skin, and smells her forehead. Long and deep.
For now he has her balanced against his chest, and I can see her face over his shoulder, eyes open wide, stunned by their own existence. I can’t help worrying that she likes him better than me. And why wouldn’t she? I would, if I were her. He’s much more solicitous.
I’m surprised to see crackers and Brie laid out on the coffee table, next to a bottle of mineral water and two glasses. Kara’s face gives no indication about what kind of motives might be attached to them or whether there is a time limit I need to be aware of—I’ll be nice now or never, that sort of thing — and so I slip into the bedroom and throw on some clothes, taking my time, brushing out my hair with my fingers to keep it from drying in bunches and snags. Look at the bruise on my hip, a deeper purple now. Does that mean it’s festering, or healing? When I emerge, the spread is still there, untouched. The Brie has melted a little bit, oozing out its own sides.
“For you,” John says. And all I can say in reply is, “Oh.” But I sit down in front of the plate and smear a buttery wedge of cheese onto a cracker, licking a little bit off my thumb. I watch John, who settles into a chair on my left and pours himself a glass of water. A few companionable minutes like this are enough to break me of my own determination not to speak.
“So,” I ask. “How was your day? Is Stan giving you hell?” Stan is John’s vocal coach, and he’s a real son of a bitch, though we love him. His heyday was in New York, and he likes making fun of John for being based in Chicago, the Second City. But he’s a wonderful stickler for the emotional power of music: he once held John for an extra hour of rehearsal because he claimed, If it was right, I’d be crying by now. “Is he teasing you very much about Parpignol?”
John’s role in the upcoming production of La Bohème is small, a toy vendor at the beginning of Act II. It is, he says, a new father’s role. For a couple of years now, he’s been making excuses for being cast in smaller parts—I’m stuck between young hero and mature; I like playing soldiers; I don’t want to travel—but this time I think that what he says might be true. He’s been staying at the Lyric well past his meetings with Stan just to chat with the designers making Parpignol’s toys. That’s what I’ve deduced through snooping. There were crumpled sketches on the table yesterday, brightly colored balls, marionettes, wooden ducks on wheels. Maybe he wants to bring them home for Kara at the end of the run.
“Who cares, right?” John shrugs. “He’s just an old gasbag.”
Although it’s true, I don’t know what to say to this. It seems to be the kind of statement designed to preclude reply. I crunch through a few more crackers.
“It’s nice to have soft cheeses again.” I gesture to the baby, who caused a nine-month moratorium. John nods, knowing.
“Yeah.” He hefts Kara to the left and squints at her, doting. “Remember how we used to argue about what she’d look like?”
I laugh. “Argue is a strong word, but sure. I said she was going to have blond hair, like I did when I was a baby. And you said she was going to be covered in little golden scales, and have pearls for teeth.”
“Hmm,” he says. “We were both wrong.” He draws her close and nibbles on one ear, as if it were gold and he was checking it for purity. She squirms. “You know, though, I think she looks like me.”
“No she doesn’t.”
I’ve spoken before I can stop myself. Shut up, I think. Shut up, shut up. But John doesn’t seem to care.
“Well, you know.” She has so much hair, so unexpectedly much, and so dark. John was surprised because he’d been born bald. All the baby photos in his family show perfect Gerber mouths and plastic-smooth Kewpie heads. Now he spins the small tuft of Kara’s hair around his index finger. “I called my mom, and she says Kara looks like my dad did when he was a baby. They have all those creepy formal portraits.”
“What about her eyes?” I ask. It’s a little hypnotic, hearing how hard he’s willing to try to make this true. A storyteller to the bones.
“Nordic blood.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“That’s what she tells me,” he says.
From the day she was born, we have politely referred to Kara’s blue eyes as a puzzle. There’s still a chance they’ll turn brown in her ninth month — I was surprised when the doctor told me this could happen, as though babies routinely shed their skin and emerge purple or green. Then I was surprised I hadn’t heard it before, that it isn’t invoked more often as a grand metaphor for how human beings are adaptable and all the same even in their differences. When I was in elementary school, we divided up the world into blue-eyed people and brown-eyed people. Some of the blues called the brown eyes common, but I told them it meant we had a more solid base of power. Kara’s eyes are waterways. Mine are the stony ground.