Read Online Pinch of Love (9781101558638) by Alicia Bessette - Free Book Online Page A

the hill.
    â€œWhat’s his full name?” she asks.
    â€œCaptain Ahab’s Midnight Delight.”
    â€œI don’t get it.”
    â€œWe didn’t pick it.”
    â€œWho’s we?”
    â€œMe and Nick.”
    â€œIs Nick your dead husband?”
    â€œYeah. Look, just call him Ahab. Or the Captain. Or Cappy or Cap’n, for short.” In Ahab Voice, I add, “Avast, me hearties!” which makes Ingrid laugh even harder. I don’t even know what that phrase means, but Nick always said it, and it does sound piratey.
    She asks me endless questions about Ahab.
    What I don’t tell her:
    1. Nick was one of those guys who always knew he’d get married, buy a house, and get a dog. He accomplished all three tasks in exactly in that order.
    2. We used to joke about “Captain Ahab’s Midnight Delight” sounding like the title of a whaler-themed porno.
    3. Nick took hundreds of black-and-white photographs of Ahab’s first few years with us. Ahab chasing his tail, eyes wild. Ahab squinting in the sunlight. Ahab, Ahab, Ahab, as if he were our firstborn child.
    What I tell her:
    1. Ahab is a retired champion who came to live with me when he grew tired of racing other dogs around a track after a mechanical rabbit.
    2. When he was a puppy, mean men tattooed his ears for identification purposes.
    3. I brush his teeth every night with chicken-flavored toothpaste because greyhounds have horribly soft teeth.
    4. He’s supposed to be that skinny.
    5. He doesn’t catch Frisbees, fetch sticks, or sit.
    Ingrid tests number 5. She stops him in the street and yells, “Sit!” and pushes his low back with both her hands.
    He doesn’t sit, just stands there.
    â€œArr, call this crazy lass off, me boy,” I croak.
    Ingrid giggles.
    I hope Ahab feels like running tonight. I hope he’ll put on a show for Ingrid. Because the truth is, sometimes he doesn’t run. The mood doesn’t strike him. Some nights I walk him to the field and unclip the leash, and he looks around, nose quivering. I give him a couple of minutes. He paws the ground or whines, and I clip the leash back on and he leads the way home. Greyhounds are like cats that way: moody, mysterious. Most of the time, you can’t make them do what you want them to. And like a true Munker, Ahab keeps his reasons to himself.
    Ingrid and Ahab and I sprint across traffic-less Main Street and trudge up the hill toward the high school. I huff from the exertion; my lungs hum with that weird cold metallic burn.
    At the football field I close the gate behind us. For safety, the spotlights here shine all night, which is fortunate for Ahab, because he’s going blind—his eyes seem milkier every day—and he can’t see too well in the dark.
    â€œYou can only let greyhounds off leash in a completely enclosed area where they won’t be able to run off,” I say. “Like here. See?” I sweep my arm around the perimeter of the fence; it totally encloses the field. No gaps whatsoever.
    â€œWhy?” asks Ingrid.
    I unclip Ahab’s leash. He sniffs the night air. He is a solemn canine beatnik, composing a jazz poem in his head.
    â€œBecause he’s likely to run after any furry, moving object,” I say. “That’s just the way he is. Once he locks on to a squirrel or a cat or whatever, there’s no stopping him.”
    â€œNever off leash?”
    â€œNever off leash. Unless it’s completely enclosed.” I strip off Ahab’s booties and stuff them in my pockets. He gets very still. He even seems to stop breathing.
    Memory Smack: As Ahab sprinted across this field, Nick, next to me on the bleachers, imitated the noise of a muscle car shifting gears.
    Ingrid clutches my elbow. We anticipate the Captain’s sudden motion, sudden speed. But he just stands there.
    I peel his coat from his back; it crackles with static electricity. I bundle the coat under my