Solvable Problems

Your marriage depends on a dog, and it’s so fucking ridiculous you can’t even believe it. It’s not even your dog.

Your husband, Jim, is on the phone with his mother, Mary, talking about the dog. It’s her dog. A moment ago, Jim’s clammy body was on top of yours, and you both knew it wasn’t working, but you squirmed around and made a lot of noise anyway, hoping to bring it back. You felt nothing inside, but you can’t tell him that. He’s trying, so you try too, even though you suspect he’s only trying because you are. Still, being interrupted by the phone call versus the times he gives up and apologizes for not being able to concentrate; it’s less humiliating. Isn’t it? You hope so, because though it’s the first time he’s actually stopped to take her call, you’re sure it won’t be the last. A line has been crossed.

You’d thought there would be a reprieve from the phone calls and the lonely nights. You’d researched for hours, combing through Yelp reviews and pet owner forums, reading posts from obsessed “fur-moms” until you were ready to kick random dogs on the street just to watch them all freak out. Not that you ever would. But you found the best pet acupuncturist for canine osteoarthritis in the city and you thought she’d stop calling. At least for a while. But once again she outsmarted you. Or the dog outsmarted you. Something. You don’t really know anymore, except that it feels like every time you think you have the upper hand, something turns it around and it slaps you back to reality.

You get up and gather your clothes from the chair by the bed, and go to the ensuite to sponge off the sweat and Pre-Seed before getting dressed. The weather is overripe, thick sticky summer in October, but the air conditioner is off for the year. October is long past time for air conditioning, and it’s too expensive to run. You don’t look in the mirror; you don’t need to see the grey roots coming in.

Jim is sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, his back to you, talking on the phone. He’s using his soothing voice, saying “Cola’s still a healthy dog overall, Mom, isn’t he?”

There’s still another two days in this ovulation cycle. There’s still time to try again before next month. There’s still next month. There has been “still next month” for the last thirty-seven months.

Mary must have tried walking Cola earlier tonight because she called Jim to cry earlier, so tomorrow, you’ll try knocking on the door of Jim’s study to try to get to him before she does. There’s no point in talking to him about it. He’ll use that soothing voice on you, stroke your hair and say “I know, honey, I’m sorry” and you’ll be pissed off you can’t scream at him because he’s being so fucking reasonable.

You head downstairs to the laundry room, and on the way you shoot a dirty look at the clock on the mantle that Mary gave as a wedding present. It’s a wooden monstrosity with curlicues but you dust it and polish it and spend nights listening to it tick. You pull out your bulk cleaning supplies and start making a paste of peroxide and baking soda. The grout between the bathroom tiles hasn’t been scrubbed in two weeks. You’d held off because the last time you’d done the grout you’d declared the floors clean enough to eat off, and Jim had asked, “Who eats off the bathroom floor?”

A baby, you’d wanted to reply, but instead you re-organized the microfiber cloths and hand-polished the banister with Murphy’s Oil Soap. You can’t bear to hear another apology.

You take the peroxide paste back upstairs to the ensuite and apply it to the grout. Instead of waiting for it to sink in first, you start scrubbing away. You remember when you thought Jim’s devotion to his mother was admirable. You remember thinking that a man who treats his mother well is a sure sign of a man who’ll treat his wife well. You remember that the dog was your idea, and are still kicking yourself for that.

You remember that night, waiting for him at your old apartment, doing dishes to pass the time. There was a week’s worth of dishes, and you washed them slowly because they were gross. On a normal night, Jim would come over after his shift, hoist you up and tumble into your unmade bed. The best part was that moment afterward, when the two of you would lie in bed, eating ice cream straight from the container with two spoons, and make plans. In a few months, when Jim’s lease was up, he was going to move in with you. You would bank Jim’s rent money for a year and buy a small house, with an eat-in kitchen for family dinners, and a big tree with a tire swing for the kids. You would argue over whether the tree should be in the front yard or the back yard, not because you disagreed, but because you wanted to hear him plan. You wanted proof he dreamed enough about your future together that he had an opinion on the details.

You’d be up half the night talking about it. You wouldn’t ask him about children directly, but your ears would perk up when he said things like “There’s a great playground nearby.” You didn’t get much sleep in those days, but the next morning you would bounce into the office, vibrating with possibilities, and then take a nap after work.

But not that night. That night, you were washing dishes because Jim’s father had left Jim’s mother and of course you understood that his mom needed him.

It was two in the morning when you finally heard the key in the lock turn, and you put down your dishcloth and gave him a hug. “How are you? Is your mom okay?”

Your arms were hardly around his neck before he pulled away, shoved a pile of clothes off the couch and slumped down. You took a Canadian out of the fridge and gave it to him before clearing a space beside him. He twisted off the cap and stared at it while you sat and pulled your feet up under you.

Finally he spoke. “He left her for a woman two years younger than me. She wasn’t even born when they got married.” He whipped the beer cap against the wall and took a swig. “Mom doesn’t even know how to write a cheque.”

You kissed him on the cheek. “I know you’ll help her out.”

He looked at you, and said, “You’re so beautiful.” You waited for the but.

He turned the beer bottle in his hands. “She’s afraid of living alone. And my lease is up in a couple of months.” He shrugged as if that said everything, but it didn’t. You wanted him to say it, so you said nothing. Eventually he did. “She wants me to come live with her.”

You remember being conscious of every muscle in your face and how you forced them to stay calm and neutral. You spoke in a careful, even tone. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

The control you had over your face and voice slipped. “You don’t know?” He shrugged again. Your voice got small and you hated that. “But what about us?”

“Anni, she’s my mother.”

“But I’m your—” You couldn’t finish the sentence, because girlfriend sounded so weak next to mother. “What about our plans? What about our life together? What about,” you choked back the words getting married. “What about living together and buying a house with a tree and a tire swing?”

He looked pained. “I’ve just spent the last seven hours listening to Mom cry. I can’t do this right now.” You tried to placate him, but he just stroked your hair and said he’s sorry. He was so warm, and you stayed as still as possible, afraid movement would remind him that he hadn’t let go yet, but eventually he pulled away and said he’d call you tomorrow.

He didn’t call.

You told yourself he needed a bit of space and folded the clothes on the couch to keep from worrying. You put them away, and tried not to think about tire swings, or bikes in the driveway, or Legos scattered around the living room. He still didn’t call, and you threw out the small pile of empty ice cream containers. Then you dug out the mop from your closet to wash the floors, and you organized your closet to put the mop back neatly. He still didn’t call.

You called your friend Janet who lived back home. Before you could say hello she asked if he’d proposed.

“No.”

“Damn. I had an intuition about it.”

“I haven’t heard from him in days!” You wanted to wail, but instead you filled in the details for her.

She was reassuringly no-nonsense. “He’ll call.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s not like that. He’s a good guy.” Then she had to go because one of the twins was crying. Later, you wondered if by good, she meant good enough. You wondered if there was a difference. You wondered if you had the luxury of wondering. You weren’t getting any younger. You had that fade-into-the-woodwork gene, and you’d read that for every year after thirty your fertility decreases by 8%.

Jim turned up a week later with an apology and a ring. You were too relieved to do anything but say yes.

He took you to his mother’s house, and she said vaguely it’s nice to meet you. Her eyes were still red-rimmed. He told his mother he’d proposed and she burst into tears, sobbing that her heart could not take any more terrible news.

“But it’s wonderful news!” you said. “We’re getting married!”

“But who will take care of me?”

Jim’s shoulders slumped. “You know I’ll always take care of you, Mom.”

“No, you won’t! You’ll be with that woman!”

“Her name is Annabelle, Mom, and she’s going to be my wife.”

It was the first time Jim, anyone, has called you their wife. You were so proud, you could have kissed him, but Mary had gone into full tantrum mode. “First your father and now you. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of you both, and you’re both leaving me.”

“I’m just getting married! I have a life too, you know.”

Mary gasped so sharply you almost thought she’d been slapped. She changed tactics. “I’m a horrible mother!” and Jim melted and put his arms around her. You held back an eye-roll, and reminded yourself that Mary is not at her best. You thought this behaviour was temporary.

You waited for Jim on the porch steps. A young couple with a leashed dog walked by pushing a blue-and-white striped stroller. Their toddler waved at you and you waved back. You remember thinking that this would be you and Jim one day, pushing a stroller and going to the park. Stopping for ice cream on the way home and your baby boy would end up a sticky mess, and you would pretend to be exasperated but really, you would love that moment, so much so that you would tell all his girlfriends about it when he grew up.

When Jim finally came out, you didn’t tell him that you’ve already named your son David. But you would call him Davey. Just you. And never Dave.

You’re unprepared when Jim suggested that you both move in with his mother.

“It’s perfect!” he said. “She won’t need to worry about losing me, and she’ll be gaining you.”

Fuck. No. You weren’t sure if you said this aloud or not, but Jim kept talking about how much it would mean to his mother and whatever you said with your voice or your face, he didn’t notice. You found yourself clutching the ring so recently put on your finger. It didn’t fit right, and if you weren’t careful you could lose it forever in an instant. Davey covered in ice cream was fading in front of your eyes. Jim glowed and chattered about this wonderful solution to all his problems, and so you made positive-sounding but non-committal noises and then called Janet and fumed. “There is no way,” you said. “What do I do?”

“Look on the bright side,” said Janet. “Free live-in childcare.”

“This is a dealbreaker.”

“Is it?” she asked. “Because he’s a good guy. Think about it.”

You wonder if you could leave him. You wonder how old you will be before you find the next good guy and if you would still be able to have kids. You wonder what it would be like to grow old alone, no family, no children, nobody. You start hinting about the poor school districts near Mary’s house and questioning whether or not there was enough space for all of you, but Jim just stroked your hair and said, “We’ll work it out.”

Your brain kept calculating and after weeks of the soft approach an idea buzzes and you took action. You put together a romantic meal, lit candles, spent half an hour blow-drying your hair, and then, in the gentlest voice you could make, you said, “But Jim, you know that moving in with your mother doesn’t address the real problem.”

He was suspicious. “What do you mean?”

You proceeded with caution. “Your mother, well, she’s just such a loving person. And she needs something to love.”

“She has me. And now you.”

“But we’re grown people,” you said. “We have jobs and we’ll be starting our lives together. We’re busy. We don’t need her as much as she needs us.” Jim’s face dissolved into flat hopelessness again. You spoke quickly. “What if we got her a dog?”

---

You remember it was ideal at first. You remember when Mary read the shelter tag about Cola, a six-year-old black lab surrendered when his family got a puppy. “Traded in for a younger model,” said Mary. “I can relate.”

She called Jim daily to tell him about Cola, about his relationship with the poodle up the street, about the soap opera of dog-park life. You got married. You had to make Cola the ring bearer at your wedding, and Mary gave you that hideous clock, but otherwise it was your day, just as you planned. Janet flew in to be your Maid of Honour. You bought a small house in Oshawa, with a big tree in front. You planned to put up a tire swing as soon as you had kids. You began trying to have kids. You were already thirty-five, and you had time but not much time.

Then the fucking dog started limping.

Mary decided the visits to the dog park were too much for him. The phone calls changed. You listened in once, to hear Mary say, “Well of course you have to lead your own life, but aren’t you all getting too old for children? They take up so much energy.”

After every phone call, Jim disappeared into his study. “I’m sorry,” he tells you. “I just can’t do this right now.” He doesn’t come out until after you’ve gone to bed. If you knock and tell him you’re ovulating, he’d dutifully try, but it rarely worked, and no matter what, he goes right back into the study. You’ve gone through hundreds of ovulation test strips but the pregnancy ones sit unused. You want to pee on a different stick.

You kept thinking this is temporary, that if you can solve the next problem you’ll be home-free. You will save Davey and his sweet ice cream-stained face. You will have a reason to decorate the room at the top of the stairs with monkey stencils. You will, but you don’t.

She shoots you down every time. A dog litter box would be too embarrassing for Cola. Another dog would traumatize him, bring back memories of being abandoned by his first family. A play date with the poodle up the road would only hurt his self-esteem.

You tried talking to Jim and cried every time. He kept putting his arms around you, using that fucking soothing voice and stroking your hair. You stopped talking about it.

Janet guesses something out of the blue, and starts talking about the rate of birth defects using Clomid versus IVF. She names fertility specialists in your area. She mentions adoption and surrogacy. You thank her and don’t tell her the truth about why you’re not pregnant. It’s too embarrassing.

You’ve finished cleaning the grout, you’ve refolded all the bathroom towels and you’ve remade the bed. Jim has since gone down to his study. You wonder about unplugging the phone by the bed, but you know Mary will just call on Jim’s cell. And he’ll answer no matter what.

You can hear the ticking of that damn clock. It’s so loud, you can’t hear the clatter of small boy feet running up the stairs. You can’t hear it because it’s not there.

This is a problem you can solve. You march down the stairs, grab the damn clock and throw it at the study door. It dents the door, and hits the floor with a loud chunk. Small pieces skitter off but the fucking thing still ticks. Jim rushes out and stares at the debris. “What happened to the clock?”

“I’m tired of being married to your mother.”

“What?”

“Your mother.” You get closer and you kick the clock past him into the study. “And her dog. I’m tired of being married to them.” You kick the clock again and you notice a smoking car on the computer screen.

“Is that a video game?”

“So what if it is?”

“I spend every night alone and you’re sitting here playing video games?”

“You spend every night cleaning.”

“Because—” you sputter. You take a deep breath, because after all this time, maybe you can fix this. You try for a softer voice, but don’t quite get there. “Jim, when was the last time we talked about anything important?”

You think it’s working because his face his softening. You think you will hear him make plans again. Maybe now, you can tell him, you’ve always liked the name David.

He says, “Well, Mom was pretty down about Cola today.”

“Not your mother and her fucking dog.”

He’s taken aback by your swearing. “My mother isn’t important?”

You know the ground is dangerous, but you don’t care anymore. “No.”

“She’s my mother.”

“I’m your wife. We had a whole life planned. Where is it?”

“She had a life planned too! What the hell do you expect me to do?”

You push past him. “Get out of my way.”

He shouts after you. “I picked you, remember? When my dad left and my mother needed me? I picked you.”

You can’t be there anymore. You grab your keys off the shining console table, slam the front door, jump in the car and peel out of there. It’s a quiet residential street with little traffic. You chose this street for that reason. You find yourself in the parking lot of the local elementary school. You chose the house because it was in a good school district. You’d seen yourself taking Davey to school every morning before work, waving at him. You’d seen him waving back, mischief sparkling in his eyes before he runs off to play with his friends. You’d seen a small backpack bouncing on his shoulders.

Classes had ended hours ago, and the parking lot was empty. You turn off the engine, put your head on the steering wheel and cry. The plastic is hard but warm and it’s all you have to lean on right now.

It’s growing dark when you drive home, but the moment you see the tree in front of your house, the tree that lacks a tire and a little boy to swing on it, you hit the accelerator and drive past it. You don’t pay attention to where you are going but after a while the neighbourhood looks familiar and you realize that you are pulling in front of Mary’s house.

Cola is on the porch, sitting just where you did that day you saw the couple with the stroller. You get out of the car and stand at the bottom of the porch steps and look him in the eye. He knows you and doesn’t bark; he just gives you a doggy grin and pants. He’s out of reach but you hold your arm out to him. He lifts his head in excitement and reaches a paw down the steps, and then hesitates and whines slightly. He looks at you and whines again, and tries to take the next step.

You go to him and put an arm under his front legs and support his hind legs and ease him down the steps. He’s heavy, and you’re breathing hard but every time you pull away slightly he whines and licks your face and keeps trying to get to the next step.

Cola is at the bottom step when Mary comes to the door. “Annabelle?” She spots Cola’s dark body in the dimming light. “Cola! Get back up here!” She smacks her thigh and Cola glances back but you and he have reached the lawn

“For God’s sake, Mary!” you say. “He just got down the steps.” You head to your car and open the door. Cola wags his tail and stutters towards you. He’s favouring his hind legs but he’s moving.

“What are you doing with my dog? Cola!” She trots down the steps to grab Cola by the collar, but you’re faster than she is, you block her hands and Cola barks sharply but keeps going. He stops at the car door and looks up at you, and you go to him. He’s asking for your help.

Mary has not stopped shouting. “Annabelle! Have you gone crazy?”

“Stay back!” you shout back. “You can’t handle him.” Cola puts his front paws on the car seat and you support his back legs and somehow you hoist him into the car and shift him until he’s lying comfortably. He grins and thumps his tail and you shut the door.

She grabs your arm. “That’s my dog!”

You twist away from her. “Not anymore!” You get into the car and start backing out of the driveway. She pounds on your window but you keep going. She runs after you, screaming for Cola, but you don’t stop. Tears have begun to leak hotly from your eyes, and your breath is coming out in hiccups, but you have the dog, and you keep driving away.