Free Say When by Elizabeth Berg Page A

for her. He liked her oddness, her clumsiness, even, most times, her outrageous and misplaced sensitivity. When they first moved in together, Ellen had a shy dog named Shawna, a collie mix who ate her dry dog food delicately, one piece at a time. Griffin had an overweight beagle called G.M. for “Garbage Mutt.” True to his name, G.M. ate anything, at any time, with no sense of delicacy, ever. Griffin once found Ellen sitting on the floor watching the dogs eat, her hands folded in her lap, her face full of sadness. He’d sat beside her, asked gently, “What happened?” He’d been thinking that her father died—he’d been in the hospital at the time. He thought she’d say, “You need to take me to the airport right away.” But what she said was, “Shawna used to eat so nicely. But now she eats just like G.M.”
    He’d refrained from saying, “Ellen. Jesus. So what?” and instead sat down beside her, put his arm around her. A blue velvet ribbon held her hair back. She smelled subtly of a rich perfume Griffin loved, and through her blouse, he could see the outline of her lacy bra. Later. He sat with her as she solemnly watched the dogs finish eating. Ellen was right—Shawna had started eating just like G.M. And after the food was gone from the bowls, they’d started fighting over the spilled pieces that had fallen between.
    That night, after Ellen and Griffin had gone to bed, he’d asked her gently why the way the dogs ate had bothered her so much. He was postcoitally benevolent, practically glowing—he would make an effort to really understand her.
    She moved closer to him, lay her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know why it bothered me so much,” she’d said. “I don’t know! I guess it’s because I wish it had gone the other way, that G.M. would have started being neat. I mean, why do things always have to go that way?”
    “Beats me,” Griffin had said. “Maybe it’s a law of physics or something.”
    “That’s another thing! How can you have any hope in the face of such pessimism? Order always progressing to disorder!”
    “Who said that?”
    “I don’t remember. But it’s true.” She’d raised her head, looked at him. “Don’t you wish you could talk to God, sometimes, Griffin? You know, get in a shot while you’re still alive and walking around the planet having to put up with everything you had nothing to do with?”
    “Do you believe in a God you can talk to, Ellen?” he’d asked tenderly.
    “There isn’t?”
    As if he knew.
    Oh, Ellen. He’d tightened his arms around her that night, and she’d put her head back under his chin and said, “I know how weird I am. I do. I’m sorry. But you know what happens? Everything just…gets to me. Everything. Even the beautiful things, they hurt. And I don’t get it, I mean the whole thing. I don’t get it.”
    He’d kept still, gently pushed her hair back from her face—just at her temple, which she liked, he knew that she liked that. And then she’d suddenly gotten up on one elbow and asked, “Do you know what a hum job is?”
    He’d laughed, astonished.
    “No, but do you?”
    “Ell en…”
    “Is it a blow job and you hum while you do it?”
    Again, he laughed. “I guess.”
    “Let me try,” she’d said.
    Later, as she slept, he lay awake beside her, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what she’d said. He wanted to wake her up and say, “We’re not supposed to get it. We’re just here. And we have each other—doesn’t that help?” But he didn’t wake her. For one thing, her answer might be no.
     
    He cut the engine and went into the diner. There was a twenty-something-year-old woman at the end of the counter with the newspaper spread out before her, doing the crossword puzzle. She barely looked up when Griffin sat at one of the stools. “Help you?”
    “Just coffee, please.”
    She put a tan mug in front of him, filled it. “Anything else?”
    He looked at the desserts in the glass case behind her.