Beneath The Lemon Tree

They couldn’t afford a dog. Not then. Not after weeks of being “between jobs”, of him surly and defensive because he’d chucked the last one in, told the boss to shove it, walked out. Of her, tight-lipped and tense, searching for milk money down the back of the sofa, in coat pockets, under the beds. They couldn’t afford it, they just couldn’t!
The dog…”See what I got for you to play with”...was a golden labrador.
“A mate gave him to me, didn’t cost me a thing, even been registered.”
He’s telling the kids, as they rush to pat it, but the message is for her. His eyes above their heads flash a warning and his fists hang loose, ready. She swallows the protest rising like lava in her throat. Its heat will burn her in the night as she lies wrestling with the mathematical impossibility that is their budget. For now, she sighs inside herself and forces a smile. Reaches out. The dog lurches free from the kids. Licks her hand.
She likes dogs, used to have one, used to chase rabbits with it in the hills above the river. Used to stride and slide and scramble after it, then sit and dream and scratch behind its ears, both of them sweating and panting in the long ago sunlight. Used to be young and carefree. Used to be able to dream.
The dog stays. Her husband brings home fresh beef bones from the works. There’s good meat on them and for a while that’s all they have, beef bones and fish heads and never letting on to anyone the trouble they’re in. Except that one time, when someone asks kindly, not meaning to pry, just being kind, “Are you OK?” and she can’t say “Fine”, cries instead, and someone reads the tears and when they get home there’s a box of groceries on the porch and he is…he is… She tries not to remember how he is, shuts it out, smothers it.
The nightmare passes and he gets another job. Life, as it tends to do, goes on. She has a job now as well, just a couple of hours before he goes to work in the morning. Most times she leaves the house before anyone wakes but this time the baby is crying and it’s easier to feed her and bundle her up and take her too. She’s done it before and no-one minds as long as her work gets finished.
When she comes back it’s cold, she hurries inside. The double gates securing the section are still open, but she doesn’t think about them until he surges through the kitchen door. His face is black with rage and she sucks her breath in, sure that this time will be the worst.
“The dog’s dead.”
She flinches at the flat statement, doesn’t understand.
“What?”
“The dog’s dead!”
“Where?” she asks, her voice rising in panic. She knows it’s her fault from the anger in his eyes, the “You never wanted it and now you’re happy!” look. It’s not true. She’s come to love the great hungry thing, hugs it sometimes, keens into its comforting neck when the kids aren’t around to see.
She asks again…”Where?”
“On the road”, he tells her. “You left the gate open!” Slamming into a chair, flinging the paper open, hiding behind it. She hears the traffic outside, slowing down, speeding up. She doesn’t want to provoke him, but can’t let it be.
“Aren’t you going to go and get him?”
“Why?” Belligerently. “Council’s job. Nothing to do with me.”
His tone is final. The sharp rustle of the paper tells her to back off or face the consequences. She backs.
Out on the road the dog lies, still warm, its life a dark pool by its mouth. Grief squeezes her heart as she crouches and tries to gather it in her arms, tears slipping down her face. She is blind to anything outside her circle of pain until a three-piece-suited Samoan city man comes to her and gently takes over.
“Here Missus,” he says softly, “I’ll get him for you.”
“It’s all right.” The words come out thick, clotted. “I can manage.”
She can’t. The body is too floppy, too heavy, and when she tries to raise it from the ground it slides away. He speaks again, quiet, insistent.
“Let me do it.” Waits patiently until she stands aside. Unfolds his morning paper and gently eases the dog on to it, then lifts it carefully and walks with her to the back of the section. Lays the grim burden beside the lemon tree.
“You OK?” he asks. She nods, swallows hard, thanks him shakily. Her husband watches, half hidden in the shadow of the wash-house window.
He is still standing there, staring at her as she digs the grave, struggling with the hard soil and blunt spade. It’s after half past eight when the job is done, the last of the dirt smoothed and stamped into place. He’s missed the bus to work and she knows he won’t go late. The day is a runaway train and she is on the track.
Her hands are blistered and her back creaks in protest as she straightens for the last time. She turns towards the house and he is there, right behind her. She hasn’t heard him coming.
He has a towel in his hands. He reaches for her and she stands still and silent, waiting. The towel is damp and still warm from the hot water he has used to wet it. It is soft on her face as he wipes away the marks of her mourning.
There is a huge unfolding in her chest. She can’t remember when she last saw love in his eyes but she sees it now, sees all the shadings of shame and pain, and hope. She takes one tentative step towards him.
He drops the towel and engulfs her in his arms, gasping a short, sharp sob of relief. She hears “I’m sorry”, over and over her head and knows it’s not just for now. She presses into his body and sorries back for her part in his distress, for words said and not said. Hurt taken. Hurt given.
They stand, locked together. The dog is buried at their feet, with all the heartache of the past. The seeds of one more new beginning have been planted and already stir, below the soil, beneath the lemon tree.

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Tags:

compassion, death, dog and kindness