1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE/JULIE GOES AWAY

"Honey," Aunt Kate said, her honeysweet voice kind and soothing.   "If there's a dog heaven, I know Julie's in it."  She wasn't our aunt, but she wanted to be called that.  And her voice always sounded the same way:  sweet, smooth, unruffled.  I knew Aunt Kate, a pillar of the tiny church we attended, didn't believe that animals went to heaven, but she said it to try to make me feel better.

At that, I burst into more tears.  My face was red and splotched.  I didn't "cry pretty" like some people.  It was an ugly sight.  My nose stopped up, my eyes swelled, and I looked a mess.  I wished I could cry like the women in the movies who dabbed at their eyes and noses, their facial features unmarred and perfect. 

"But I didn't get to say goodbye to her," I wailed.  "They took her to the vet, and they never brought her home.  They didn't even ask me!"  There was a brief lull as I thought of more indignation and hurt.  "And she was just staring at me when she left with them.  Just staring at me from over the back of the tailgate like she didn't even know me," I sobbed.  "She was droolin' real  bad."

"Honey, she had sleepin' sickness.  There's no gettin' over that.  Your mama and daddy did what they thought was best.  They knew she wud'n gonna get well.  It was for the best."  She took my snotty hands in her soft, plump ones, held them both in one and patted with the other. 

"Why don't you try some of this coconut cake Aunt Kate brought ya'll?  I made it this morning when I heard about Julie.  I know you loved that puppy.  She was a real sweet girl."

I had cried so long I'd about made myself sick.  To date, Julie's death was the most grievous thing I had ever experienced.  Julie didn't demand anything.  She played if I wanted to play, rested if I wanted to rest, and Jan and I had her chase us just about every night that she lived, growling, shaking the llama houseshoes we ran in, like her life depended on killing them. 

I loved sneaking to the door every night to let her in, and the light pressure of her body as she jumped on the foot of the bed and settled down on the tops of my feet. Her light snoring and tiny grunts and yelps were comforting night sounds.  Occasionally, when she slept during the day, we laughed at her little yips, like she was having a bad dream.

Mother came into the kitchen about that time.  She'd been doing something, but I wondered what, since she always spent time with Aunt Kate when she visited.  She'd helped her up the front steps, since Aunt Kate was round and elderly.  She'd taken the cake and put it in the kitchen-then she disappeared for about five minutes.

Aunt Kate, with her twisted gray hair and perfect powdered face, looked like she could have come out of a tintype formal portrait.  She always wore a dress; her soft hairdo swept up and framed that face, that  etching of  human kindness.

Mother didn't like for her children to cry.  Maybe that's why she so rarely told us no, or don't, or stop.  It made her uncomfortable.  She wasn't one to dig deep into the emotions.  Pragmatic, she just thought people, including children,  had to buck up and deal with whatever came their way.

 My grandmother Nettie told me once it was just mother's way, not necessarily a bad way, just her way.  She'd grown up with a mother who wouldn't sign her report card, making her wait till her dad could do it.  Since he worked the evening shift, the kids always had to take their cards a day late.   "Kids don't understand mental illness,"  she'd said, so they just had to find ways to make it okay.  Mother's method was just to ignore it and push on .  It worked pretty well for her, but I needed more. 

I know Mother would never have called Aunt Kate to talk to me, but since Aunt Kate had shown up, she just more or less let it happen.  And it worked.  I sniffled a few more minutes, but I felt encouraged that Julie had made such a good impression on her.  And I accepted her assessment of sleeping sickness.  Julie couldn't have lived drooling like that and staring at people.  It would have scared them. 

Aunt Kate slipped the knife  through the three layer cake and placed her scrumptious creation on a dish Mother had bought at Safeway.  It was blue and white and featured an idyllic country scene with a picturesque house.  "Here, sweetie," she said kindly.  "Eat this.  You'll feel better."

Going against what I believed to be true, I allowed myself to picture Julie running on top of a puffy white cloud, bounding  forward awkwardly  like she always did.  Abruptly I saw her stop, front legs splayed, and there in a little indentation of the cloud was a llama houseshoe.  If there was a dog heaven, she would be happy there.

I took a big bite of cake, savoring the rough texture of the coconut and the sweetness.   Sudddenly I felt certain I could be me again, stop crying and move forward.

 "That's better, isn't it?" Mother asked me, but I think it was more of a statement.  She didn't wait for an answer, getting saucers for herself and Aunt Kate.  "Want some coffee, Kate?" she asked, already gathering the cups.