Excerpt from Smelter City Boy

You know there’s more to Creative Non-fiction than just making things up. It allows me to examine moments in my past and write about them with a deeper sense of truthfulness. These are not word-for-word recollections of the conversations I’ve had, but they are close enough to reveal the underlying emotion of the issue.

Today is my sister Cherie’s birthday. And as I reached into my bag of tricks for what to give her, I realized I had revised this section of the book to be published in a shorter form for a collection that I didn’t make it into this year. This isn’t the most attractive side of our relationship. It illuminates a moment in time when our kinship became strained. Cherie and I, you see, enjoyed a close alliance. Growing up, she was more than a sister to me. She was a sounding board, a baby-sitter, an ally in many arguments. After my mother died, Cherie became a matriarch, and wrapped herself in the mantel of all things family related. In this moment I wrote about, she was the arbiter of doing the right thing … even if it felt horrible and wrong.

We have long since confessed this to our family. I didn’t get the opportunity to come clean to my parents before they died. But you can rest assured, when I speak to them in my head (as I so often do) I let them know how much I loved them, and what an influence for good Cherie has been in my life.

About Honey

February, 1980 

My sister Cherie was the only person to ever cut my hair. Sometimes, she’d whip a towel around my shoulders and clip my hair in our kitchen. But today she had managed to squeeze me in between the shampoo, set and comb-out crowd she normally tended to in her beauty parlor. I usually left with more than a haircut. The shop a nexus of town trivia, and I took advantage of our half-sibling relationship to bitch about the other members of our complicated family. She had moved out of the house when I was two years old. We saw eye-to-eye on a lot of things.

“How’s being alone going?” Cherie asked. Mom and Dad were on their yearly mid-tax-season vacation. This year, they had driven to San Francisco.

“I love it,” I said.

“How’s the dog?” Cherie asked about Honey Yvette, our ancient toy poodle.

“Oh you know. She has more coughing fits than usual. Sometimes she passes out and pisses herself, but she’s holding up,” I said. Cherie carefully clipped my bangs, the wet hair fell into my lap.

“Yeah, about that,” she said.

“About what?” I could barely hear her over the bank of hairdryers working at full power, their denizens almost shouting at each other.

“About Honey. She has no quality of life,” Cherie said.

“She has what?” I shouted.

“Hush!” Cherie pulled out a blow dryer and directed it at the back of my head.

“She has little mini-strokes. You know, you’ve seen it,” I said, louder than I probably needed to.

Cherie turned off the hair dryer. My hair was far from dry.

“About Honey,” she said again. She swung the chair around and faced me.

“What about Honey?” I repeated.

“Listen, I … she … we,”

“What?”

“We’re going to come by tomorrow and pick her up and take her to the vet,” Cherie said.

“Mom didn’t say anything about that,” I said. “But that’s fine. I’ll leave the back door unlocked.”

“We aren’t going to be bringing her back,” Cherie said. She swung the chair away so I faced the mirror. “Look down,” she said. She opened a straight razor to shave the back of my neck.

“That’s OK. I’ll pick her up from the vet after school,” I said. Honey was seeing the doctor with a lot more regularity since she’d developed a heart condition.

“Grant … ” Cherie shaved my neck with short, quick strokes.

“It’s no problem. I get out of band at 2:45 tomorrow, and I can pick her up before 3:00. She won’t be there all day. She hates being kenneled,” I said.

“No sweetie. We’re going to have the vet put Honey to sleep.” She wiped the back of my neck with a towel and unclipped the smock.

“What?” The air was leaving the room. The sound of the blood pumping in my ears drowned out both the hair dryers and the shouting women.

Before I could speak Cherie said, “Listen. She’s old. She’s really old and her heart … she has no quality of life. You’ve said it yourself. She has those coughing fits, and then she passes out. I think it’s better this way. She is causing a lot of trouble for Mom and Bob.”

“She is not,” I said. “She’s a good dog. She’s been our dog since I was, like, three years old. She’s got a heart condition.” I stood up.

“Sit down for a second,” Cherie said.

“Does Mom know?” I asked.

“Sit down for a second,” Cherie said. “Mom doesn’t know. And we’re not going to tell her.”

“What?! You think she’s not going to notice when she comes back from vacation and finds you’ve killed her dog?”

“She’s my dog, Grant.”

“She’s not though, Cherie. She hasn’t lived with you—ever. You may have been the one to bring her home, but you’re also the one who left her with us. She’s my dog. I’m the one who takes care of her.” I was starting to shout.

“Calm down.”

“I will not calm down. You’re going to … ” I couldn’t continue.

“We’re going to put her out of her misery, Grant. She’s really sick, and Mom and Bob are never going to do it. We’re going to have to do it,” Cherie said.

“Yeah? Well … they’re hoping she has a coughing fit, passes out and doesn’t wake up!”

“That’s what you are going to tell them when they call tomorrow night,” Cherie said.

“Excuse me?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“You’re going to tell them that you let Honey out to pee, and she collapsed on the front porch. When you noticed her missing, it was too late, she was already dead,” Cherie said.

My eyes traveled across the floor. I looked at the hair Cherie had swept into a little pile. “Hold on. Let me get this straight. You want to kill my dog, and you want me to lie about it to Mom and Dad?”

“She’s my dog, Grant.”

“OK. You want to kill your dog—which you left with us when you moved out—and you want me to lie about it to my parents,” I said.

“Yes. That’s it. Listen …”

“Nope, I will not listen,” I said. “This is crazy talk. You are talking crazy talk to me!”

The women started to notice we were arguing with each other. I thought for a second, then I lowered my voice and said, “I want you to think about what you’re asking.” Cherie opened her mouth to protest, but I put up my hand to stop her. “I’m going home. They are calling at 10:00 tonight. If, between now and then, you still want to do this, you have to come up to the house at 10:00 and tell them yourself.”

Cherie’s resolve melted. Tears came up under her eyelids. She blinked them away and sniffed. “Jesus Christ. Can’t you just do this? Can’t you just do this for me?” she begged.

I tilted my head and frowned a bit. “I can’t see how this has anything to do with you,” I said.

***

Honey was asleep on the couch when I got home. She had long since stopped hopping up and down to meet me when I came home from school. But she had also astonished us with moments of pure, lucid, regular dog behavior.

I stepped across the living room and sat down by her side. She didn’t stir. I stroked her head and massaged the spot at the top of her ears. She opened one eye and blinked a couple of times. Lately, her breathing was irregular. She huffed a few times and then inhaled, nuzzling her snout into the palm of my hand. We sat together while the late February sun cast long shadows across the snow drifts on the front lawn.

Around 6:00, the sun had completely set. I got up, went into the kitchen and dialed Cherie’s home number.

“I’ll do it,” I said when she answered the phone.

 ***

The phone started ringing just as Johnny Carson was finishing the monolog. Don’t answer that, I thought. When they ask, you can tell them you were out and missed the call.

Honey had barely moved from her spot on the couch. The phone stopped. I exhaled, lit a cigarette, and waited.

A half-hour later, the phone rang again. There was no escape. I walked to the wall phone and picked up the receiver.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hello is more like it,” Dad said. “How’s everything?”

“Oh. You know, OK, I guess,” I said.

“We called before but you weren’t there,” he said.

“I was here,” I said.

“What?”

“I was here, I just didn’t answer the phone,” I said.

“Talk to your mother,” he said.

I waited for a moment. I glanced at Honey. She was breathing in catches on the couch.

“Hello honey,” Mom said.

“Oh … my … hmm .. Mom … my … I …,” I stammered.

“Oh honey, what is it?” She knew something was wrong, my stammer had given me away. Again.

Nothing, I thought. Say nothing. Just wait for them to come home and ask about the dog. If you’re lucky, you won’t even be here and they’ll put it together themselves.

“Honey, is something wrong? Did you have a car accident? Are you OK?” If you wait long enough, sooner or later she’ll ask you about the dog, I thought. I hadn’t rehearsed this.

“Something’s wrong. Can you come home?” My voice cracked.

“Oh my God. Bob? There’s something wrong,” she said to Dad. I heard him in the background muttering. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“Honey’s … dead.”

“Honey’s fed?”

“No, Honey’s dead. Honey died. Honey is no longer with us,” I blurted out.

“What? Did you just say Honey’s dead?”

“Yes. That’s what I said,”

“Oh no,” she said. There was a long minute on the phone. I could hear faint bits and pieces of other people’s conversations. Long distance was like that. Sometimes you could clearly hear entire conversations. Tonight, even the distant voices sounded difficult. As if everyone on the phone was lying to their parents. “Here, honey. Talk to your father,” she said. The phone clattered down on the hotel nightstand.

My heart started to race. I switched phone hands and ears, drying my free hand on my pant leg.

“What’s going on?” Dad said.

“Well, Honey died last night,” I said.

“Oh no,” he said. Another long minute passed and I heard muffled chatter on the line.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No. No. Not at all.” His voice drifted off. I’d heard my father sound angry, or frustrated, but never once had I heard him sound sad.

“How?” It was Mom on the phone. He had handed off the receiver.

“What?” I asked. I had hoped to avoid this part. It painted me as a careless person. A bad dog owner.

“How did she die?” Mom asked. I stared at Honey, sleeping fitfully on the couch. This is mean, I thought. You’re being mean to your parents.

“I let her out and she had an attack on the porch. She didn’t come back in, so when I looked for her before I went to bed, I found her on the porch. I thought she was asleep.” Jesus Christ! Listen to yourself!

“Oh no. I can’t believe it, you know? I just can’t … ” Oh my God. She can tell you’re lying. She can see right through you. She always could. This is so fucking mean. I heard her talking to Dad, “He says she had an attack on the porch, and when he found her she was dead,” she said. “Honey, here, talk to Daddy,” Mom said.

“Hey,” I said when Dad came back on the phone.

“Is it cold there?”

“What?” I was no longer there. I was somewhere else, talking to someone about something I had no notion of.

“Is it cold there? I mean, how cold is it?”

“I dunno. It’s … you know … above freezing in the daytime and below zero at night, I suppose,” I said.

“Did she freeze to death?” he asked.

“What?”

“Was she frozen to the porch?”

“Oh! No. No, she was cold, but she didn’t freeze,” I said. There was another long pause. Someone on the line started laughing uncontrollably.

“Where is she now?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he was talking into the phone or across the room.

“Are you asking me a question?”

“Yes, where’s Honey now?” he asked.

“Oh! Um … you know … um …,” I stalled. She’s asleep on the fucking couch! “I put her in the garage. Cherie is going to take her … no, wait … Cherie is coming up tomorrow and we are going to bury her in the sand box.”

“Well … you know … at least she died on her own,” Dad said. I had to end this conversation. My guts were twisting.

“Oh Dad, I … I’m just … I’m so sorry.” I started to cry.

“She was a good dog,” he said.

“Yeah. She’s a good dog,” I said. I glanced in Honey’s direction. “Please come home, OK? Come home tomorrow?”

“It’s going to take us a couple of days to get there. We’ll be home soon, though,” he said. He can hear you crying. “Grant?”

“Wha-ha-what?” I stammered.

Another long silence. Somewhere on the line, someone asked a question.

“Nothing,” he said. “It was nothing. We’ll be home soon. All right then … goodbye,” he said. The line went dead, and the dial tone crackled back to life.

***

The next morning I hopped out of bed and roused Honey. We began our morning routine. She coughed until she choked, lapped up a bit of water, and panted her way to the front door. I let her out and watched as she peed on the porch, her urine raising a little cloud of steam. She stood and sniffed at the wind a little bit, coughed, and walked to the other end of the porch. She pooped before she came back and scratched at the aluminum screen door.

I got ready for school, flicked off the porch light and pulled the door closed behind me. When I unplugged the heatbolt heater, I glanced back at the house and saw Honey sleeping on the couch in almost the exact same spot where she’d spent the night. I shrugged off the cold, started the car, and scraped the frost off the windshield.

After my second class, around 10:00 a.m., I went into the third floor bathroom and vomited. I swished some water in my mouth and walked into the office to tell them I was leaving for the day.

On the drive home, I thought through my plan.

You and Cherie will have a standoff. You will prevail. She will mention that you have already lied to Mom and Dad. You will tell her that lying was easy. So easy, in fact, that you will wait for their call tonight and tell them the dog had mysteriously revived in the garage. “When we went to bury her she was alive and well—better than ever,” you will say. You will apologize, and tell them you feel stupid. You will never speak civilly to Cherie again.

I pulled up in front of the house and parked the car. I raced up to the front door and burst inside. I considered dog-napping Honey. I had enough gas to drive to Missoula and back. That would be enough time for Cherie to come to her senses.

But I was too late. Honey was nowhere to be found. I called out her name a couple of times and nothing happened. I didn’t hear her cough to life in some obscure corner of the house. I didn’t hear the familiar jingling of the tags that hung off her collar.

She was gone.

I sat on the couch, where only hours before I had stroked her head and pulled lightly on her ears. Shit! I thought. Shit! Shit! Shit!