Men and Dogs Read Online Free Page B

looking up. She takes one last deep breath and resumes. Step, step. Keep climbing. Keep—
    Suddenly, out of the depths behind Mrs. Wong’s open window, a black, hairy being lunges at her with a demonic snarl.
    It’s the shock. It’s the vodka. The wine. It’s the loss of her husband. It’s the Red Bull. It’s the delicate combination of all these things, and with even one variation in these elements—one less drink, or, even better, one less Denise—she might be able to hang on. But all of these factors, along with Mrs. Wong’s new Scottish terrier puppy, are now perfectly poised,
no, stacked against her. So that Hannah Legare, as if at last facing an invisible wave of all her sins, is left to fall three long stories into the next unwanted chapter of her life.

3
The Night He Left

    T HERE WAS A rattling. It woke Hannah up.
    She shut her eyes and tried to push herself back into sleep, but the sound persisted.
    The sound of a car. Her mother on the phone. The front door opened and closed. Her mother was still talking. Hannah couldn’t make out the words exactly, but she could hear the spikes of anger.

    Time passed. Hannah waited for the rattling to stop. It did, only to start again, joined by a banging. She put her head under her pillow. When this didn’t work, she sat up and got out of bed.
    Bare feet on old wood. The sound was coming from the laundry room. It was the dryer. The door was shut, so she opened it and turned on the light. Someone was on the floor, under a pile of towels.

    She stood for a while.
    What are you doing? she finally asked.
    My soccer clothes, her brother said. They’re dirty.
    What’s banging?
    My shoes.
    She nudged the human-towel pile with her foot.
    I like to sleep in here sometimes, he said. Under the towels.
    But the shoes are banging.
    Deal with it.
    Dad come home yet?
    No. I don’t know. Probably.
    I didn’t hear him come home yet.
    Just leave me alone, Hannah, OK? Leave.

    She left for a while, then came back.
    Can you take your shoes out, please?
    No.
    I’m telling Mom.
    If you get out of here, I’ll take out the shoes.
    OK.
    Don’t tell Mom, narc.
    OK.

    She remembers her brother yanking the dryer door open. There was dirt under his fingernails. She can still see the scraped knuckles. He took the shoes out and threw them on the floor.

    Hannah turned out the light and went back to her room. She got in bed. She’d promised not to tell her mother, but she could still tell her father. It seemed important. Something was happening to Palmer.
    OK, OK. I’ll tell Dad tomorrow. At breakfast, maybe. Or after, when we’re alone again.

4
Palmer and Tom

    W HEN TOM ANNOUNCES his desire to have a baby, it is Friday. Palmer is annoyed. Friday is not the day to bring up new relationship issues. Much better to deal with those on a Tuesday or a Wednesday, when one is already problem solving at the office. Friday is supposed to be a day of pleasure. It’s the day Palmer rotates his herb plants, has lunch with his mother, and takes time off from the gym. It’s the day before Saturday, set aside for shopping or some sort of outdoor activity, which is the day before Sunday, set aside for sex and laundry and reading the imported Sunday Times . Unless Palmer happens to be on one of his semiannual vacations (one out of the country, one in), he does not stray from this routine. When people tease him about being fastidious, he shrugs his shoulders and says, I’m gay.
    The presentation itself: an amateurish effort at manipulation. A cappuccino on the counter, the fleshy scent of homemade crepes. Palmer frowns. Crepes are the sort of thing one has to act thankful for but are more trouble than they are worth.
He’d rather have plain yogurt and black coffee. He feels the same about morning sex, another of Tom’s constant offerings.
Disruptive, messy, but he partakes because the easy sweetness is there.
    “Crepes,” Palmer says, feigning enthusiasm. “Yum!” Tom slides the plate in front of