Novel: Conviction

Chapter One

Good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience:  this is the ideal life.

Mark Twain

It wasn’t really where she wanted to be. Such a long time since she had gotten together with these particular girlfriends;  girlfriends from high school;  girlfriends from the old neighborhood;  girlfriends whose lives had gone on like hers and pulled each of them a little bit further in varying directions.  Her mind wandered, imagined capturing that thought of “friends whose lives had been pulled in varying directions” with her paints. What would that look like? How large would a canvas have to be to capture not only the superficial differences of their lives but the struggles, the joys, the emotions, the obstacles, the fate that had brought then each here. Brought them each to this particular moment in time. Together. Apart.

Her shoe caught in a bit of a divot in the uneven earth and she was wrenched backwards, back into the moment and, more urgently, back into an elderly woman whose last bit of iced tea seemed the only casualty of the encounter. Aimee fumbled out an apology as the uninterested woman further backed away glaring at her as if she had just shot her dog. “God”, Aimee thought, “if your biggest problem today is some spilled iced tea…you crabby old bitch”. Of course, she only thought that. Outwardly Aimee continued a saccharine sweet apologetic smile.

As she was lowering her hand, Misty ran over, her over-sized (and real) Louis Vitton tote banging against her thigh, grabbed Aimee’s wrist saying “you’ve got to see this” and dragged her further back into reality to see their most outgoing (and often embarrassing friend) participating in the New England Family Street Fair’s inaugural adult hola-hoop contest.

Aimee, Misty, Jean, Jodi, and occasionally Terese reserved a fall weekend every year to get together. They had faithfully each kept their word for the past five years running and had managed a long weekend – and once even a full week in Venice. The Venice trip was a fluke, arranged, coordinated, and paid for by Terese’s company.

Terese was the only one of their group that had gone the corporate route. With an undergraduate degree from Yale and an MBA from Harvard, Terese was quickly scooped up by the financial world and earned her first cool million by her twenty seventh birthday. The trip was originally scheduled by her hedge fund as some sort of wooing of potential new investors as well as a recognizance trip for Tereser.  The Fund had its sight on what seemed to be a magically expanding bank headquartered in Venice. Terese never foreclosed details. Suffice it to say the potential investors and the bank representatives both canceled (separately but says apart) and the Fund was left with an almost all-expenses paid trip to the historical city. Aimee didn’t understand the particulars like how was a group of girlfriends with no connection to the hedge fund, specifically, nor the financial sector, in general, an acceptable business expense? Aimee didn’t inquire. Come to think of it Misty nor Jean nor Jodi inquired either and Terese never offered to fill in the blanks. Truth be told, Aimee could care less and she wondered whether the other girls’ lack of questions arose from apathy too or just a more evolved form of social etiquette. Regardless, that unexpected trip proved to be a banner success. Maybe because there was no planning involved, no crippling expense. Maybe it was because they all felt a sense of overwhelming gratitude to Terese and remained on their best, and most compromising, behavior. Even Jodi. Jodi, who was really not a malcontent or otherwise difficult person, was usually the complainer of the group. Or maybe poor Jodi earned that reputation through no fault of her own. Inevitably, if something went wrong on a girls’ weekend it was Jodi that it went wrong for. Lost luggage. Food poisoning. An exploding toilet. Anyway, that week in Venice everything went smoothly – even for Jodi.

Well, this was the first afternoon of the girls’’ New England getway and Aimee hoped this weekend would go just as smoothly. God know,s they could all use it.

Chapter Two

Whenever I am with my mother, I feel as though I have to spend the whole time avoiding land mines.

Amy Tan – The Kitchen God’s Wife

In spite of herself, Aimee laughingly cheered Misty on in her pursuit of the apparently much sought after Hola-Hoop Queen title. We could all learn a lot from Misty, Aimee graciously thought. Misty’s ability to carefreely live in the moment was definitely an enviable quality. Unusual. Upon first introduction it would appear that Misty was the artist and Aimee the CPA instead of the way it really was – vice versa. Misty, who aslos had an eviable body, twirled her hips, threw her hair back and whole-heartedly laughed at herself as she lost her balance – and by extension the Hola-Hoop contest – falling to the ground on all floors as a result of a hip-jiggling indiced dizzy spell. Good for her.

The girlfriends spent the rest of the lazy afternoon meandering around this God-knows-how-many-acres-long fair in the perfect autumn weather. The conversation and the mood remained light, the girls all seemingly content to take a page out of Misty’s book and celebrate the moment. They ate candied and bought more to bring back to the bed and breakfast. They samples regional wines and bought even more of that to bring back to the bed and breakfast. They indulged in the local delicacy of fired dough. They purchased beeswax candles for way too much money and small original works of art – even more outlandishly overpriced – even though they all knew as soon as the purchase was complete, the new photograph, painting, or in Jodi’s case hand carved angel statue – would be regaled to a basement, dark corner or drawer never to emerge again until yard sale time.

Yet, as they chatted, walked and spent money something else began to happen that, unfortunately, couldn’t be counted on during these weekends:  they each began to relax. Their shoulders were no longer being held so tensely, so tightly, so close to their ears. They took deeper breaths without even realizing it. They started noticing the lovely yet everyday things around them that brought quick smiles:  a little girl with an ice cream cone, a playful puppy and the colors, textures and abundance of the leaves. Aimee paused. She smiled. She looked at Misty. She looked at Jean. She looked at Jodi and Terese. She took an even deeper breath and thought “I am really am happy I was able to make this weekend after all.” Because what was awaiting her back at home would still be there when she returned. And, with that thought, Aimee gathered her girlfriends and they all got in a surprisingly long line for mugs of beer from a local brewery.

It was completely out of character for Aimee to drink beer – let alone actually enjoy one. The signs at this beer tent boasted a light, okay and refreshing flavor. Also, out of character for advertisements to actually prove true. It had been so long actually since Aimee drank a cold mug of beer she couldn’t even remember when the last time was. Sure, Aimee was an avid wine drinker (red made her ill) but never beer. She couldn’t separate the smell of beer from the memory of the palpable hostility in the air of when her mother cracked open another can. A big fan of Pabst Blue Ribbon and the even less palatable Old Milwaukee, Aimee’s raging alcoholic Mom finally did her and her Dad a favor and walked out on them one rainy Sunday in August – eleven days before Aimee’s twelfth birthday – leaving behind a trail of empty beer cans leading to the empty spot in the driveway.

Leaving a trail of empties and disappearing for an afternoon (or a couple of weeks) was nothing unusual. But, there was something different this time and Aimee could feel it as soon as she walked through the broken screen door. Entering through the backyard Aimee didn’t even see that the old Buick was missing from the parking space out front or that her mother’s bedroom dresser drawers were left open like gaping wounds. Aimee didn’t see the “Fuck You” note left on the refrigerator – for her Dad, for her or for the world in general – nor Beatrix’s thing, gold wedding band hanging from a noose in the entrance hallway. Although Aimee didn’t see any of these things upon entrance she intuitively knew her mother was gone. Finally, blessedly gone. Aimee indulged in a smile and a deep breath and began to ease into the corner sofa and let this never before feeling of relief wash over her.

Her entire life, every single time Aimee entered her house or her mother came crashing in she experienced a tightening of all of her muscles. It was as if every part of her body braced itself for whatever was going to be hurled at her by her mother:  insults, rage or just an impenetrable air of malcontent. Maybe for the first time ever, Aimee relaxed back into the sofa cushions (had they always been this soft and inviting?), kicked off her worn down Keds into the middle of the rug and extended her too-long bowed legs onto the stained oak coffee table.

The calm was just beginning to wash over her. A peacefulness began brewing at the top of her head and gradually worked its way down form her scalp, down her neck, over her back, past her legs finally spreading to her already sized 8 ½ feet. Aimee wiggles her toes (adorned wither her favorite striped socks) and reclined even further back into the sofa by extending her arms onto the back and raising her legs in the air just for a quick stretch.

Her legs slightly raised above the coffee table, Aimee froze. Slamming her stocking feet back onto the rug – hard enough to make her wince from pain – Aimee jolted forward and brought her arms immediately down to her sides. From her position on the corner cushion of the worn sofa she could spy the mirror in the hallway. It was the reflection of something in the mirror that turned her to stone. More accurately, it was the reflection of the lack of something. Mischief’s leash was gone form the hook. And below, his favorite yellow, dirty, old tennis ball was also conspicuously absent. It was not unusual for Mischief to stay snuggled in Aimee’s bed during the day – often not stirring even when someone entered the home so there was nothing at first to cause Aimee to think Mischief was gone.

It wasn’t that her mother had gone that brought Aimee to her knees in a sobbing fit. It was that the cold-hearted shrew had taken Aimee’s dog with her. She would never see Mischief again and that was a fact two decades later Aimee still did not recover from.

Chapter Three

Happiness Is a warm puppy.
Charles M. Schulz

After one of the best nights sleep Aimee had in a while, she stirred awake fully stretching her arms out above her, pointing her toes luxuriously in the other direction. It took a full minute for her to get her bearings – to remember what she was looking at was the beautiful ceiling mural of her even more beautiful bedroom in the bed and breakfast. Aimee smiled, in spite of herself, stretched a bit more and lazily rolled over onto her left side catching a glimpse of the bedside alarm clock. 9:00AM on the dot. 9:00AM. She had slept for eleven solid hours and, if the undisturbed sheets were any indication, she had barely even stirred. Sitting up, Aimee slowly placed her bare feet on the push mocha colored carper, walked to the light blocking tab top curtains covering the glass screen doors and pushed them out of the way. The room flooded with glorious sunlight and Aimee could feel the warmth on her skin. Maybe she should have packed her painted or, at the very least, her sketchbook after all. If this view of the Berkshires couldn’t inspire her maybe her last painting would turn out to be just that – her last.

But no. She wouldn’t let that thought or further self doubt seep into her brain. This weekend was supposed to be an escape – an escape just as much from self limiting thoughts as it was from everyday routines. Painting and sketching was, of course, a prominent part of her everyday routing. Yet, in recent months the discipline she had worked so diligently to cultivate seemed more a self imposed prison than an impressive work ethic and her work was suffering for it. Ideally, an artist is supposed to create for the process itself, for the work itself. Certainly not for the potential commercial success. But that is hard to do – maybe impossible to do – when your mortgage depended on it.

Glancing back at the clock Aimee couldn’t help but notice she’d been enjoying the view for a full ten minutes. When was the last time she’d done that? When was the last time she had paused and appreciated the natural beauty around her? Is that the way other artists’ viewed the world? Well, maybe I will be one of those artists for the next few minutes. And with that thought, Aimee plopped herself down Indian style and studied the breathtaking view before her. She would absorb every details of this view – the hues, the shapes, the feelings it induced – and if her mind began to wander, well then, she would allow it to wander. But, she would only allow it to wander into optimistic territory…which, of course, brought with it memories of her Dad.

Timothy was a patient man. Too patient for his own good. A flaw that enabled Beatrix to walk all over him and their life for way too long. HE proposed immediately after Beatrix told him about the pregnancy. Cliché? Yes. But, it was a different time then. Besides, he was truly in love with Beatrix and believed whole heartedly her drinking and drugging and wild ways would abate after the baby. Another cliché. Predictably, (well predictably to everyone except Timothy) Beatrix didn’t change, In fact, feeling unattractive after giving birth and trapped so young in a boring domestic life, he behavior grew worse. Not only did her drinking and drug abuse increase but she grew more and more hostile, more and more resentful, with each passing year. And with each passing year Timothy waited patiently for this phase to pass. He waited for his wife to sober up, to act like the devoted wife and loving mother he believed her to be somewhere deep down inside. Timothy’s approach to his marriage metamorphosised with the turn of each calendar page. He tried encouragement. He tried threats. He shelled out the money for a renowned rehabilitation facility three states away. In the end, after more than a dozen years had passed, after he allowed his only daughter’s childhood to continue with an abusive parent he realized all his strategies were actually thinly disguised varieties of enablement. He hated himself for that. He hated himself for not protecting Aimee, for not leaving with her a long time ago. And every day of his life he was grateful that Aimee held none of that against him. Unwaveringly, Aimee had seen that best in her Dad and didn’t fault him for all the mistakes he made and, God knows, there had been plenty.

It was the memory of her Dad taking her to adopt Mischief that Aimee was focusing on now. The memory probably popped up in her brain because she was thinking of her father and because she was looking at another picture perfect autumn day – the same exact type of day it was when she forst met Mischief.

Aimee was in second grade. Two of her best friends (whose names she could no longer remember) had each gotten Labrador puppies – one for her birthday and one just because. Aimee fell in love with each of the puppies (whose names she could still remember:  Fido and Betty) at first site. She was sick with jealousy over her friends’ newly bestowed puppy ownership and all the fun and responsibilities that came with it. Aimee immediately began her campaign for her own puppy – alternating between crying and begging and what she considered a more mature approach of simply listing why she was a worthy dog owner and how deserving she was. Of course, she reserved her pleading for her Dad only knowing full well her Mom literally could not care less. And finally, finally, Aimee’s living Dad made his little seven year old daughter’s dreams come true.

Aimee, comfortable on the plush carpeting of her bed and breakfast bedroom, continued gazing out the glass doors of the balcony and began unwrapping this treasured gift of a memory – slowly, delicately, honoring every last details. In her first semester at the liberal arts college, Aimee, a freshly declared arts major became quickly enamored with a tall, lanky, moody adjunct professor who occasionally took over lecture responsibilities for the basic art history requirement class. Aimee considered Antoine her mentor for almost an entire semester until she discovered he was just a no-talent creep with a pension for naïve first years. There was nothing of any value Antoine imparted upon Aimee with one exception. One piece of advice that proved to be Aimee’s most useful tool,  by far, as an artist:

Pause. In your mind’s eye focus on a memory. Now try to recall every last tidbit – the colors, the sounds, the shapes. Take the time to find the right words. Struggle to describe it. And mostly, focus on the feeling. Now draw that.

Once again, Aimee put this trusty piece of advice to work and started retrieving every tiny detail she could from that day – that perfect day.

It was brisk. Ideal weather. Temperature just cool enough to wear a sweater yet not cold enough to cause a winter chill. Oversized white puffy clouds glided slowly over the brilliant azure sky, leisurely, luxuriously – not a care in the world. Aimee was laying in a pile of leaves on the front lawn bundled in her favorite wool sunflower sweater, holding her favorite stuffed animal, P.J. Pup, close. The leaves – maroon, rosy pink, gold – were deep enough to create a mattress above the earth and Aimee was as comfty as could be. She gazed up at the clouds playing a game she usually played with her Dad:  What shape did the clouds resemble? A princess? A flower? A sleigh? Aimee was focusing on a particularly large cloud that sort of resembled a familiar cartoon character – was it Dora the Explorer? – when her Dad squeaked open the front door. “Hey, Aimikins (the only name her Dad ever called her)…take a ride with me, okay Kiddo? P.J. Pup can come along too.”

Aimee rolled over, brushing off leaves from her own sweater and the sweater of P.J. Pup and popped up. She looked down at her worn through Keds and thought, for about the millionth time, “I wish I had a puppy”. As Aimee raced toward he Dad’s beloved car, the old blue Buick he called Mack, all she was thinking was “today is the day I have to convince my Dad to get me a puppy.”

Every week, usually more than once, Aimee would accompany her Dad while he did weekly chores:  grocery store runs, dry cleaning drop offs, car inspections. And her Dad would always call her the same way:  “Hey Aimikins? Take a ride with me okay, Kiddo?”. So Aimee thought nothing of it when she jogged across the lawn, opened the rusty passenger side door of the car (it took three tries because the handle often stuck), climbed in with P.J. Pup in hand and strapped herself in.

Aimee questioningly looked over at her Dad as he moved onto an unfamiliar exit from the quiet highway. The Buick gradually slowed down until it came to an almost crawl-like pace on a long, curvy, tree-lined street. Aimee could see the mischievous smile on her Dad’s face and she tried but could not fathom what was causing him to make that expression. Aimee rolled down her window even further and dared to crane her head outward so she hung out the window – very surprised that her Dad didn’t yell to her to re-buckle her seat belt and sit back down.

As the car took a sharp turn to the left, a low, long ranch style building appeared before them. Only a few other cars occupied parking spaces closets to the (what appeared to be) newly constructed building. There were plenty of trees and shrubbery on the sides and rear of the building but the front was free of any adornment offering a completely clear view of the sign:  The Neighborhood Animal Aide.

Wait! The Neighborhood Animal Aide? What did that mean? What were they doing here? As Timothy slowly pulled into a parking spot to the right of the double-door entrance, still with that beaming smile, it dawned on Aimee all at once:  they were here to adopt a dog! She looked down at P.J. Pup and held him a little tighter because she felt like her heart was going to explode. When she looked at her father who was already looking at her she returned his beatific smile and, shocking them both, allowed one small tear of joy to escape and slide down her cheek. Aimee knew this day, this moment, would be one she would never forget.

Aimee looked around the sparkling clean lobby as her Dad chatted with the friendly (maybe flirty) receptionist. It wasn’t until Aimee was in college that she realized that women everywhere threw themselves at her father. There were enormous, shiny photographs of cats and dogs on every wall and several brochure displays offering advice on every topic a new animal parent might need assistance with from nutritional guidelines for a diabetic cat to tips on welcoming home a new dog. Aimee reached for the latter just as her Dad beckoned her to join them at the front desk. She slipped the folded brochure into the back pocket of her jeans and reached forward to hold her Dad’s hand – a gesture she hadn’t bone in years.

They made their way up the small staircase adorned with even more photographs (smaller but just as shiny) of cats and dogs. Them at the top, when they emerged into the second floor, before them were aisles and aisles of potential pets.

It wasn’t until years later, as a grown woman, that Aimee realized just how fortunate the animal residents of The Neighborhood Animal Aide were. Not only was the facility new, amply equipped and staffed with a generous amount of employees and volunteers, but the accommodations for the cats and dogs were nothing short of luxurious – certainly when compared to other shelters. Each dog and cat had their own immaculately clean ten by twelve foot “room” complete with food, water, toys and plenty of blankets for cuddling. As Aimee, Timothy, and the receptionist, Karlie, walked down the aisles looking at all of the animals being cared for at the shelter, they crossed paths with two elderly volunteers:  one scratching a cat’s belly and the other playing a passionate game of rope tug-of-war with a healthy, furry golden Labrador Retriever.

Aimee’s heart swelled. She wanted to take all of the animals home – even the cats and she didn’t even like cats! She wanted to provide all of them with a loving home and a chance at a long healthy life with a family that would adore them. She was comforted by the fact that while these animals awaited placement in their forever homes, they were being provided with top of the line care in a top of the line facility. And then she saw him: a mid-sized, coffee-colored mutt cuddled up in a soft blue blanket at the back corner of his room. Aimee wandered over and peered between the bars. The gentle dog raised his head and locked eyes with Aimee. She looked that the laminated sign posted with information about this dog:  labeled a mutt, he was described as a possible mix of Labrador and Beagle. His name was Mischief. He was about 2 ½ years old. Aimee, with her eyes once again locked with Mischief’s, sat down on the floor in a cross-legged position. Keeping eye contact, Mischief rose stretched and made his way the few feet to Aimee. He followed her lead and sat down opposite her. Aimee raised her hand and put it through the bar for Mischief to smell. He bend his head to sniff her hand and then, once again taking her lead, his lifted his paw to meet her hand. It was as easy as that. Fate. Kismet. Whatever the name of it was Aimee had found her first love and Mischief had found (what they both thought would be) his forever home.

With a relaxed body ad peaceful mind, Aimee stretched her hands overhead and stood up. She was surprised to see that almost a full hour had passed. Doing a quick calculation she figured she had just enough time to sneak in a bubble bath, throw on newly purchased Athletic lounge clothes and meet the girls for brunch.