WHAT GRAVY KNOWS

Gravy’s given name was Grady when I brought her home from the dog shelter eight years ago. A German shepherd-something mix, estimated to be between two and three years old. Semi-floppy ears and a long, slender snout perfect for nudging the lid off the trashcan and scouting along the baseboards for a dropped peanut or rogue kernel of popcorn. Ladders of prominent ribs and knobby spine bones like a trail of stones lined up, one after the other. She didn’t have to be convinced to settle into the good life—walks twice a day, a flannel dog bed, squeaky stuffed rabbits, scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.

My four-year-old niece, Kellogg, started calling her Gravy—either she couldn’t pronounce Grady or maybe she misspoke once and someone laughed and pretty soon we were all calling her Gravy. Sometimes I call her Potato, just to make Kellogg smile.

Gravy stands at the back door, looking over her shoulder. Her tail swishes when I abandon my laptop to push the screen door open. A mosquito glides in and I swat at it, missing. Don’t mosquitoes sleep at night? “Hurry up, Gravy, go potty. Quit sniffing. Go potty. Potty! Good girl.”

I shake a biscuit from the box. “Gravy, come!”

She crunches her treat. Nighttime routine: brush teeth, moisturize face, turn out the lights. Is the back door locked? I trip over Gravy in the dark and we both yelp. I catch myself with both palms on the edge of the counter. “Idiot,” I tell her, or myself.

#

I was supposed to take Kellogg out for lunch today to celebrate the start of summer vacation, but she sent a text last night canceling.

“She’s been moody,” my sister said on the phone. “She’s on a diet, no carbs. Also, the boy she’s been seeing broke up with her.” A diet? Seeing a boy? She’s twelve and a half. I didn’t say that though, because my sister is touchy to any perceived criticism of her parenting skills, more so since the divorce. I said, “Maybe next weekend, then.”

I pull on hiking boots and shove a handful of poop bags into my pocket. “Where’s your leash? Gravy, find the leash . . . good girl.”

It’s early, not yet seven o’clock. Gray fog hangs in the air like smoke, except cleaner smelling. I pull up the hood of my windbreaker. It takes twenty minutes to walk to the park because Gravy stops to examine every fire hydrant and telephone pole and mailbox post in our neighborhood.

Welcome To Highland Park! No Skateboards. Dogs Must Be Leashed. We spend ninety minutes winding up pebbly trails and past duck-filled ponds skirted by greasy tubes of goose turds. We only encounter two other people, a male jogger and a woman with a Chocolate Lab. Daisy flirts with the Lab before losing interest to bark at the ducks. Strange to think this friend of mine, who has lived with me for the better part of a decade, who greets me every evening, who depends on me for food and water and exercise and affection—doesn’t know my name. What does Gravy know? She knows I’m often impatient and that I’m addicted to coffee and that I’m a night owl.

I give the leash a little tug when she catches the scent of a dead rodent poking out from beneath a bush. Gravy also knows that I like to drink red wine on Friday and Saturday nights while binge-watching American Crime Scene. She knows I eat too much ice cream and that I occasionally do cardio, cursing the whole time. She knows talking to my mother on the phone makes me anxious and that getting my period makes me irritable. She knows I loved a man named Monroe, and that I cried when he left. Gravy loved Monroe, too, and looked for his car on Saturday mornings through the front window for seven weekends in a row. She doesn’t check the window anymore. I still check my phone sometimes.

I shout, “Dammit, Gravy! Knock it off,” when she yanks my arm to chase a rabbit. It leaps beneath a clump of juniper bushes, long lean body stretching toward safety. “No. Leave it.”

Gravy knows what a dog who scent-marked this same oak tree ate this morning. She knows if the other dog is male or female, young or old, has arthritis or cancer, is happy or sad.

Shit, did I remember to lock the front door when we left the house? I pat my pocket to touch the key through the fabric. Did I or didn’t I? The clouds are spreading apart and the air has become spongy with humidity. I strip off my jacket and tie it around my waist. Invisible songbirds chirp from the leafy canopy. The air smells green. We come around a curve in the path, tight woods flanking us on both sides.  

“Excuse me! Hey, hi there.” A homeless-looking guy is coming toward us—maybe late forties, long dirty hair, raggedy jeans and stoned eyes, skin burnt brown and pitted like the bark of a white mulberry tree. He says, “Do you know where Diamond Path Road is? She said it was near the lake but I’ve been wandering around for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Um, I’m not sure. Sorry.” I point. “The lake is half a mile that way. I think the streets over there have rock names—Quartz and Marble and Emerald. I’d try over there.”

“Oh wow, thanks, you’re a lifesaver. I bet you’re right—it’s over there. I’m meeting my friend, her name is Linda. Nice doggy, here boy.” He comes closer and I wind Gravy’s leash around my wrist, keeping her between us as we pass by him. He’s one of those people who assume other people exist just so they can talk to them. “Good dog. Are you enjoying your walk? I don’t have any treats, I wish I had a treat for you, buddy.”

I offer a little wave. The sun is out now, hurting my eyes and pinking my bare arms. “Have a good day.”

#

This is also what Gravy knows: I have panic attacks, usually at night.

I rush from one dark blank window to the next, yanking blind cords and flipping locks. “I think he’s already in the house. Oh my God, Gravy, is he? In the basement. Or the attic.” I stare down the yawning hole into the lower level, remembering his straggly hair, his hollow eyes.

Gravy and I go into the bathroom. I lock the door, pull the clothes hamper in front of it, balance the scale on top. I’m breathing too fast; after a minute I’m suffocating in the small windowless room. I can’t open the door—he might be waiting on the other side. I crouch on the cold tiles and bury my face in Gravy’s soft ribs. Tears and snot soak her fur. She butts her head beneath my chin, licks my face. I drop my head between my knees and count to thirty.

My fingers reach toward the basin, patting its surface until they bump up against the plastic handle of my safety razor. I think if I push on both sides at once I can pop the blade out of its holder. Gravy curls up on the rug in front of the bathtub. A long sigh pushes through her nostrils. I stroke her velvet snout. Her nose is cool and moist against my hand. I set the razor back onto the basin.

#

Gravy and I are cuddled up in bed, her head on my lap. Of course there’s no intruder—there wasn’t one tonight, or last time or the time before that. I shift Gravy’s weight and pad to the window to part the curtains. The street is empty; everything looks normal. No sinister shape crouches behind the trash and recycling bins. No furtive movement flashes near the neighbors’ garages. I climb back under the covers and Gravy rolls onto her side with a sigh. I stroke her soft flank.

This is what Gravy doesn’t know: she doesn’t know how to balance a checkbook; she doesn’t know how to open the cupboard where the kibble is stored; she doesn’t know how to spell ball or treat or car ride; she doesn’t know where I go every Monday through Friday, between seven-forty-five and five-fifteen; she doesn’t know why Monroe left and never came back.

Gravy doesn’t know that sometimes, in the throes of those disjointed, disorienting spells in the dark empty hours before midnight, when the hot flush of shame and the heavy chill of loneliness alternately grips my limbs, when the taste of regret floods my mouth and the sound of my own ragged breathing fills my ears and the only thought in the entire universe is of the knives nestled in the kitchen drawer, or the bottles of sleeping pills lined up on the bathroom shelf—the only thing staying my hand is the click of toenails in another room, the silky-rough coat like dark water through my fingers. The liquid eyes, staring into my own, telling me without words: I need you.

Author’s Biography

Jessica Hwang’s fiction has appeared in Reservoir Road Literary Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, Mystery Magazine, Tough, Shotgun Honey, Uncharted, Failbetter, Wilderness House Literary Review, Moss Puppy Magazine and is forthcoming in Pembroke Magazine. You can find her at jessicahwangauthor.com.