The Dog Days of Charlotte Hayes by Marlane Kennedy Page B

cane, and walks away with a strange shuffle hop. “Well, I might as well show you around,” she says.
    We take a slow tour of the downstairs portion of the house. To the right is a small formal sitting room, which leads into the dining room and then the kitchen. There is a hallway to the left of the kitchen that meanders around the stairway and ends up at the front entry. Petunia’s bedroom is at the rear of the house, then a bathroom, and a big living roomat the front of the house. So we have, in effect, just made a circle. Everything looks old-fashioned. Like I’ve stepped into a time warp. But the place is tidy. And so is Petunia. Petunia is kind of pretty, I decide. Her white-gray hair is gathered in a loose twist in the back and she is wearing blush, lipstick, and a purple skirt with a lightweight tan sweater. Noticing these things makes her a little less frightening somehow.
    â€œYou have a nice house,” I say.
    â€œThank you,” Petunia replies. And I think I catch a certain amount of pride in her voice.
    Rhonda explains the routine I am to follow. She gives me the key to Petunia’s post office box and tells me that Grater’s Groceries down the street has set up an account for Petunia. I’m to get the mail first, then check with Petunia to see if I need to run to the store for anything.
    Petunia remains silent through all this. It occurs to me that she is looking just as uncomfortable as I felt a few minutes ago.
    â€œWell, I need to be getting back,” Rhonda says, checking her watch. “I have a four o’clock clientcoming in for a trim.” She touches my shoulder. “I’m planning on working until I go into labor, so I won’t need you until I have the baby, but I’ll call you when I’m headed for the hospital. Okay?”
    â€œOkay,” I say, following Rhonda to the door. Petunia and her cane thump after us.
    â€œGood-bye, Aunt Petunia.” Rhonda leans over and kisses her on the cheek.
    â€œGood-bye.”
    I say good-bye, too, but without the kiss, of course, and follow Rhonda out the door.
    â€œWell, that didn’t go too bad,” Rhonda says, while waiting for the traffic to clear so she can cross the street. “It actually went a lot better than I thought it would. She likes you, I think.”
    â€œShe does? How do you know?” I definitely couldn’t tell.
    â€œWell, it took her years to accept me. Believe me, if she doesn’t like you, she lets you know in no uncertain terms.”
    I don’t ask for details.
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    Beauregard lets out an excited bark when he sees me approach. He knows I’m late. Wish I could explain to him why. There’s still a little water left in his bowl, so I don’t feel too bad about keeping him waiting. He doesn’t even need to take a drink after I fill it full of fresh water. Just flops over for his belly rub.
    Once I’m done with the belly rub, I try to ignore the piles of poop that have accumulated since the last time I cleaned up after him, which was only a few days ago, but it’s hard to ignore poop ’cause otherwise you’ll step in it. I’ve done that before and don’t exactly want a repeat experience, so I go to the garage to get a shovel and stop by the kitchen for a plastic bag. Soon I’m wrinkling my nose as I wedge the shovel between the ground and one of the presents Beauregard left me. Earning that $325 can’t come quick enough.
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    After dinner Daddy visits his breezeway studio, Mama gives Justin Lee his bath, Agnes giggles on the phone with Tom, and I pull up saintrescue.org with a satisfied grin, imagining what it will be like to see Beauregard’s profile there.
    I click off the Web site, though, when one by one my family starts drifting into the living room: first Mama and Justin Lee with his damp hair, then Agnes, and finally Daddy. Daddy has brought his painting with him. He is holding it gingerly from the