Nancy Culpepper by Bobbie Ann Mason Read Free Book Online

neighbor said he had rheumatoid and held out knobbed fingers. The doctor told him to avoid zucchini and to drink lots of water. Grover doesn’t like zucchini, Nancy said.
    Jack and Nancy and Robert all deal with Grover outside. It doesn’t help that the temperature is dropping below twenty degrees. It feels even colder because they are conscious of the dog’s difficulty. Nancy holds his head and shoulders while Jack supports his hind legs. Robert holds up Grover’s tail.
    Robert says, “I have an idea.”
    “What, sweetheart?” asks Nancy. In her arms, Grover lurches. Nancy squeezes against him and he whimpers.
    “We could put a diaper on him.”
    “How would we clean him up?”
    “They do that with chimpanzees,” says Jack, “but it must be messy.”
    “You mean I didn’t have an original idea?” Robert cries. “Curses, foiled again!” Robert has been reading comic books about masked villains.
    “There aren’t many original ideas,” Jack says, letting go of Grover. “They just look original when you’re young.” Jack lifts Grover’s hind legs again and grasps him under the stomach. “Let’s try one more time, boy.”
    Grover looks at Nancy, pleading.
    Nancy has been feeling that the dying of Grover marks a milestone in her marriage to Jack, a marriage that has somehow lasted almost fifteen years. She is seized with an irrational dread—that when the dog is gone, Jack will be gone too. Whenever Nancy and Jack are apart—during Nancy’s frequent trips to see her family in Kentucky, or when Jack has gone away “to think”—Grover remains with Jack. Actually, Nancy knew Grover before she knew Jack. When Jack and Nancy were students, in Massachusetts, the dog was a familiar figure around campus. Nancy was drawn to the dog long before she noticed the shaggy-haired student in the sheepskin-lined corduroy jacket who was usually with him. Once, in a seminar on the Federalist period that Nancy was auditing, Grover had walked in, circled the room, and then walked out, as if performing some routine investigation, like the man who sprayed Nancy’s apartment building for silverfish. Grover was a beautiful dog, a German shepherd, gray, dusted with a sooty topcoat. After the seminar, Nancy followed the dog out of the building, and she met Jack then. Eventually, when Nancy and Jack made love in his apartment in Amherst, Grover lay sprawled by the bed, both protective and quietly participatory. Later, they moved into a house in the country, and Nancy felt that she had an instant family.
    Once, for almost three months, Jack and Grover were gone. Jack left Nancy in California, pregnant and terrified, and went to stay at an Indian reservation in New Mexico. Nancy lived in a room on a street with palm trees. It was winter. It felt like a Kentucky October. She went to a park every day and watched people with their dogs, their children, and tried to comprehend that she was there, alone, a mile from the San Andreas Fault, reluctant to return to Kentucky. “We need to decide where we stand with each other,” Jack had said when he left. “Just when I start to think I know where you’re at, you seem to disappear.” Jack always seemed to stand back and watch her, as though he expected her to do something excitingly original. He expected her to be herself, not someone she thought people wanted her to be. That was a twist: he expected the unexpected.
    While Jack was away, Nancy indulged in crafts projects. At the Free University, she learned batik and macramé. On her own, she learned to crochet. She had never done anything like that before. She threw away her file folders of history notes for the article she had wanted to write. Suddenly, making things with her hands was the only endeavor that made sense. She crocheted a bulky, shapeless sweater in a shell stitch for Jack. She made baby things, using large hooks. She did not realize that such heavy blankets were unsuitable for a baby until she saw Robert—a tiny,