All the Single Ladies: A Novel Read Free Page B

everyone. I’ve seen some pretty amazing things happen when ­people pray.”
    They looked at me and I knew they were hoping against reason that I was going to tell them I’d seen ­people miraculously cured. I’d heard of miracles, lots of them in fact, but I had not seen one. I was sorry. I wished I had. I wanted to give them hope where there was so very little, but I failed. I could not lie to them or give them false reassurance.
    As the day crawled by, I became more and more disheartened. Every time I went by Kathy Harper’s room, she seemed a little worse. By the time I got home, I was beside myself with dread and all sorts of claustrophobic and woeful feelings. But Pickle was at the door and all but swooned with happiness to have me back. Dogs were so great. I adored mine and could never resist her enthusiasm.
    “Hey, little girl! Hey, my sweet Pickle!” I reached down and scooped her up in my arms and she licked my face clean. “Did you go outside today? Did John and Mayra come and take you to the park?”
    Pickle barked and wiggled and barked some more. Apparently, John and Mayra Schmidt, my dog-­loving next door neighbors, had indeed taken Pickle somewhere where she found something to roll around with or to challenge because she smelled like shampoo. They were retired and kept a set of keys to my house. Mayra spent a lot of time making note of the personal comings and goings of all our neighbors. She was always peeping through her blinds like Gladys Kravitz on that old television program Bewitched . I loved her to death.
    “What did you do, Miss Pickle, to deserve a bath today? Hmm? Did you find a skunk?”
    Pickle loved skunks more than any other mammal on this earth. Maybe it was the way they moved in their seductive stealth, low to the ground. They held some kind of irresistible allure. That much was certain.
    She barked again and I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that she said yes, she’d been rolling around with a dead skunk. But most dog owners thought their dogs spoke in human words as well as dog-­speak. I took her leash from the hook on the wall and attached it to her collar.
    “Let’s go, sweetie,” I said, and we left through the front door.
    John and Mayra were outside getting into their car. I waved to them and they stopped to talk.
    “Hey! How are y’all doing?” I said.
    “Hey! Good thing we had tomato juice in the house!” Mayra said. “Our little Pickle ran off with Pepé Le Pew this morning!”
    “Pickle,” I said in my disappointed mommy voice.
    I looked down at her and she looked at the ground, avoiding eye contact with me.
    “So John baptized her with a huge can of tomato juice and then I shampooed her in the laundry room sink.”
    Mayra squatted to the ground and held out her hand. Pickle was so happy to be in Mayra’s favor again that she pulled hard against her leash, yanking me forward.
    “Thank you! She sure does love you,” I said.
    “We love her too. Little rascal. Good thing I went to Costco,” John said. “I stocked up on enough tomato juice to make Bloodies for the whole darn town!”
    John was famous for his Bloody Marys but refused to share the recipe. I had tried many times to figure it out and finally decided, because he grew jalapeños, that he must’ve been using his own special hot sauce. And maybe celery seed.
    “Well, good! Call me when the bar opens! And thanks again for taking care of my little schnookle. She’s like my child.”
    “Ours too!” Mayra said. “I love her to death. She gets me out of the house, and golly, she’s good company.”
    “Thanks. I think so too. Come on, you naughty girl, let’s get your human some exercise.”
    We walked the streets of my neighborhood, passing one midcentury brick ranch-­style home after another. Some had carports and some had front porches but they all had a giant glass window in the living room. Some ­people parked their boats in the yard and others didn’t even have paved driveways, so the