Robin Black - If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This: Stories

For Richard

A T SEVENTEEN, Jack Snyders daughter is slender-faced and long of limb and still able to startle her father with her seeming certainty about everything she thinks. Theyre driving along roads he doesnt yet know, on their way to meet her first seeing-eye dog, and she is wearing polka-dotted sunglasses, a long jean skirt, and a shirt with the words: If you can read this T-shirt, maybe YOU can tell ME what it says. A kid from her school ordered them, in the dozens, and Lila bought three in different shades. Youre sure they arent identical? she questioned her mother at the time. I dont want my teachers thinking I never change my clothes.

Believe me, Lila, Ann Snyder said. I dont want your teachers thinking you never change your clothes either.

As Jack scans the road for signs, Lila is proclaiming to him in those certain tones of hers that if it werent for being quite so blind and having to have one, shed definitely never get a dog. Never. Never ever. And her father is trying to follow her, trying to respond appropriately; but thoughts of Miranda Hamilton compete with the girls words. Miranda Hamilton unbuttoning her jeans the night before, sliding them down her thighs, stepping panty-clad from the denim pooled at her feet. Miranda Hamilton unbuttoning his suit pants, leaving them bound around his legs until he kicked them off. Mirandas cropped blond hair fading into soft, colorless down along the back of her neck. Miranda laughing as she filled her mouth with bourbon from Jacks glass and held the fluid there, smiling while it drizzled from her lips until he kissed her and swallowed it himself. Miranda whispering to Jack, her mouth still whiskey damp, just to lie back, lie still, while she moved her hips in something close to perfect circles over him. Just lie still. Just lie still. Just lie still.

Really, Dad, theyre so obsequious, Lila says, and Jack has to remind himself what theyre talking about. Guide dogs. Theyre talking about guide dogs. The whole alpha-male pack-mentality thing. Cats dont give a shit about anyone, right? Her father swerves around a pothole, and senses her sway beside him, unprepared. Its an early-spring day and they are into the long weeks between the damage done by ice and snow and the repair work to come.

Thats certainly their reputation, Jack says. Cats are undomesticatable. Too wild.

I find that infinitely more appealing.

Jack nods silently, an assent he knows his daughter cannot see.

Maybe I could have the first ever seeing-eye cat. Lila crosses her arms. Some real haughty feline with attitude.

You mean like you?

But his daughter shakes her head. No. She turns her face toward the breeze of the open window, lifting her sunglasses. No, she repeats. Id want a guide cat who really doesnt give a flying fuck. She draws an audible breath through her nose. Manure?

Were in farm country now. He says it quietly, as he looks around outside. Rolling hills of tilled soil settle dark brown against the clear blue sky. Occasional red barns dot the land, appealing in their melancholic disrepair. The scenery is picture-postcard beautiful, but he keeps that to himself. For now, anyway. Later in the day, maybe after dinner, hell call Miranda. And hell tell her all about how lovely the landscape looked; and then maybe hell tell her once again how painful these moments of unshared beauty can be. Standing in the farthest reaches of his backyard, hell hold his cell phone close against his mouth so he wont have to shout and hell close his eyes as he describes to her again how solitary he so often feels with his sightless daughter by his side. How among all the things for which he might feel guilt, theres always this one mountainous inequity: that he can see and Lila cannot.

Is it pretty? Lila asks.

Were out in the sticks. Its okay. He pictures Miranda pacing her kitchen, phone in hand, running an exasperated hand through her hair. This isnt your strength, Jack. You have to learn to let go.

Yeah, I figured as much. Lila turns her head his way. Are there cows?

A little way back there were. Black Angus, I think. Big and dark.

Sounds nice, Dad. But Jack only murmurs a neutral sound, and Lila turns away, facing forward again. The thing is, she says, I just cant imagine raising a dog and then giving it away. Even if I dont much like dogs, it still sounds like an elaborate form of masochism.

Its a But Jack cant find the word he wants, and hes pretty sure hes just missed their turn. Dammit, I think were lost. No, wait, this must be right. Its a good deed, he says. Its something these guide dog people want to do. Hes your dog and they know that from day one. So they dont get attached.

Yeah, right, Dad. Do you really believe that? That you can just tell yourself not to get attached? You dont seem so thrilled about me going to college. Why didnt you just tell yourself not to get attached?

Very funny. But shes right, of course. Who is he to assume anyone can tell themselves what to feel? Hes always been unable to tell his heart a goddamned thing. Very clever, Lila, he says. But its the system. Its how this guide dog business works. And since we benefit from the system for once, Im not going to argue with it. Here we go. Sharp turn left He gives her the warning and at the edge of his vision sees her brace herself for the curve, hands gripping her seat. Hang on, babe. This looks bumpy. Dirt road.

I think I can handle it. Bumps in the road are my special-i-ty. Lila has her head turned to the open window again, holding the door, her thick dark curls flying in the breeze. Maybe theres something wrong with me, she says, but I actually like the smell of manure.

No. Her father draws in a deep breath of the sour, full air, savoring the simple fact that theyre smelling the same thinga relief from all the sights they never share. I agree with you, baby. Its a strangely pleasing smell.

And, by the way, so is skunk.

Absolutely, he agrees, remembering the pungent, oddly twisting scent of Mirandas sweating skin. Absolutely, he tells his daughter. So is skunk.

L ila was six, playing in the garage of a neighboring family the Snyders didnt really know, when an aerosol can of orange spray paint blew up in her face; and for a long time after that, many years, Jack was stuck on that one simple facton the tenuous, fleeting nature of the acquaintanceship. Almost as though the same accident, with the same result, in the home of a close friend would have somehow made more sense. But none of it made any sense, of course. He knew that. You could turn the thing around, replay it endless timesand you would. You would. And you would. And you would. But none of it made any sense at all. There you are one fine October day, living your life pretty much as you had planned, your lawyers shingle hanging up, white and shiny, outside your solo practice downtown; tranquilly married to your wife of eight years, whom youve managed still to love, though so many of your friends have clearly, even openly, tired of theirs; doting on your six-year-old daughter whom you adore, with the not so secret sense that shes a little prettier, a little smarter, and a lot more special than other peoples kids; enjoying your smug, self-congratulatory thoughts about the way fatherhood refocuses priorities. Long gone are the days when you were known as a bit of a skirt chaser, back in the single years; the days when anything held the same appeal as tossing a ball in the backyard with your kid. And then a fucked-up aerosol can of orange paint blows up in your daughters face. In the garage of a boy she doesnt really know.