I’ve been at Best Friend’s Manor for thirteen years. It’s a combination adoption agency and animal rescue that’s been my home since I was six weeks old. My mother left me, like a library book, in the ‘no questions asked’ baby box at the firehouse. I don’t blame her for not keeping me, I had a face even she couldn’t love. What I don’t understand is why she named me Belle. There isn’t a single attribute of beauty that can be applied to me.
I won the facial deformity trifecta. A cleft palate raised my lip, exposed my teeth, and lisped my speech. A port-wine birthmark shaped, like a spider, covered the left side of my face, webbed over my eye, and earned me the nickname of Red Creeper. A lazy eye made it impossible to look directly at people who either stared or pretended to be mesmerized by something just over my shoulder.
Facial reconstruction was not a possibility. Miss Rose, our caretaker saved pennies by making sure none of us took second helpings of our meager meals. It isn’t in her character to waste dollars on surgery. Hiding me is enough of a fix.
I graduated from a crib with a blanket over the railing to a canopy bed with curtains until one of the children destroyed the frame by using it as a trapeze. Miss Rose, surveyed the ruined bed, sighed, and pointed to the wardrobe.
“You don’t want the other children to have nightmares,” she said.
Even though I liked the idea of ghosting their dreams, I spread my blanket on the closet floor and plopped a pillow on top of it. It didn’t matter. I faced the wall in the corner of the dining room when I ate and took care of the dogs while the others played outside. My tented bed had separated me from the eyes of the children, but not their voices. Sleeping in the closet would protect me from their cruel words.
The dogs were my friends. I loved seeing tails wag when I cleaned the kennels and shined each dog’s brass nameplate. Dogs never made fun of me. I buried my face in their fur and looked into the only eyes that loved me back. No squirrel distracted them when they walked by my side. Adoptions were the only thing that took them away from me.
Each month, Miss Rose had a viewing party for kids and pets. I never went. There wasn’t a demand for ugliness. My presence would turn the event into a pity party. There wasn’t a family for me. That was okay, the dogs were my family. I didn’t miss the children who were chosen, but I hated losing any of my four-legged pals. I couldn’t part with Mandy who shook her whole backside when she was excited, Lady who pranced around on her hind legs begging for me to throw a ball, or Rex who resurrected my smile every time he licked tears from my cheeks.
I hated adoption socials, but I did what I had to do. Before the party, I groomed the dogs and tied colorful bandannas around their necks. Rex needed a bath. He’d been digging in the corner of the exercise yard.
“If you weren’t my favorite, I’d be mad,” I said putting my arms around his sudsy neck and laughing as he licked bubbles from my face.
Miss Rose bathed the children and fussed with their hair. She distributed fancy dresses or suits for them to wear while they greeted the guests and showed off our dogs. Sometimes a child and a dog were adopted at the same time.
“It will make the transition easier,” Miss Rose often said as she calculated the fees.
I knew the children didn’t care for the dogs like I did. They’d walk the dogs to the party and pass them off to the first available hand so they could head straight for the food table. I cringed as I paired each child with one of the leashed dogs. The dog’s tails were at half staff as they walked away from me.
“Too bad you can’t come with us,” said a ruddy-faced girl named Susan. Her eyes narrowed over her crooked smile. “It’s a shame that there will be no cake and ice cream for you.”
“Susan! Beauty is as beauty does,” Miss Rose said more as a threat than an observation.
Miss Rose meant to defend me but I hated when she said that. No matter how nice I was, only the dogs would see my beauty. Many of the pretty darlings who lived at Best Friend’s Manor were ugly on the inside. No gorgeous outfit could brighten a dark heart. Dark-hearted children put spiders in my sleeping closet and giggled as they skipped rope to rhymes they made up about me.
Red Creeper don’t be a weeper
Take your face out of this place
Red Creeper won’t be a keeper
Go away so we can play
I missed the dogs and tried to enjoy the solitude while everyone was away. I dragged a stick over the ground in the exercise yard making swirls in the dust. Something shiny caught my attention. I strode over to where Rex dug a hole by the fence. I could see a brass plate, like the ones we used on kennel doors. It was attached to something made of wood. I grabbed a shovel and uncovered a box.
After prying it loose, I raised it with both hands. It was the size of the bread box on the kitchen counter. The wood was warped. I ran my fingers along the wavy wood grain and got dirt under my fingernails. I polished the nameplate with my sleeve until I could read the inscription: Recipes for the Heart. Dirt-encrusted hinges fought back when I tried to lift the lid. I pried it open with the stick Rex liked to fetch for me. The book inside was crisp and clean in spite of its filthy container. I placed it on my lap. Cook always made the same meals: oatmeal for breakfast, bread and lard at noon, and macaroni, soup, or spaghetti for dinner. I had no use for a cookbook. Or so I thought.
My eyes saucered as I read the table of contents. Instead of boiled chicken, there were recipes for wisdom, courage, grace, and beauty.
Beauty, the word trampled my heart like a pack of wild dogs. Could I be beautiful? How could there be a recipe for beauty? No magic was strong enough to make me look normal. But what if there was?
Cavé was the only word on the next page. Cavé? Was it about a black hole? Then I remembered the storyteller who visited on Halloween. Community members volunteered sometimes. Miss Rose gave away any pretty things that were donated and stepped aside when the do-gooders wanted to bring us a little joy. If you can call it that. This volunteer was different from most. His eyes were a deep violet color. Black hair hung like seaweed on his forehead. He didn’t flinch when he saw me, he smiled. Our eyes met. Most people looked away. He didn’t. I leaned in to hear his story.
“Cavé is Latin for beware,” he said. I can still hear the vibrating echo of the word that set my teeth on edge each time he used it before the scariest part of the story. The stories scared the children. I heard them crying in their beds and worrying about monkeys’ paws. Where would they even see a monkey’s paw? I didn’t lose any sleep. I was more intrigued than afraid. Magic wasn’t real. Or was it? It couldn’t hurt to try.
I found the recipe for beauty. I didn’t need to be a great beauty. I wasn’t greedy. I just wanted to look normal enough to go about my business without worrying about other people’s reactions. I wasn’t afraid. I couldn’t look any worse. I turned to the recipe for beauty.
The ingredients were simple and not impossible to assemble. Start with a mixture of honey and lemon. I was glad Miss Rose liked her morning tea. Add six drops of morning dew, six hairs from a loved one, and six heartfelt tears. The sun hadn’t reached the ivy that twined around the tree next to the old garage. I added the dew. I could take the hairs from Rex’s brush, but tears might be tricky. I wasn’t sure I could cry on command. Then Rex didn’t return to the kennel. He’d been adopted, I shed way more than six tears. If I couldn’t have Rex, at least I could be pretty.
I waited until the next full moon and, with the precision of a scientist, followed the formula. My face tingled as I slathered on the elixir guided by the light streaming through the bathroom window. It felt like thousands of tiny ants were skating across my cheeks and around my eyes. Something was happening. I leaned towards the mirror I usually avoided and watched the change unfold like a ballet. Invisible forces bridged the gap in my smile and created a smooth lip line that curved upwards. I tested the change by running my tongue over my repaired palate. My teeth receded behind an unbroken lip. An invisible spider retracted its strawberry replica and revealed the creamy texture of unblemished skin. I closed my eyes and saw fire stars on the inside of my eyelids. The mirror revealed a face I didn’t recognize but knew to be me. My lazy eye faced forward in unison with its overworked partner. The reflection revealed a beautiful image. Was I dreaming? No, I could feel my feet slapping the cold tiles as I jumped and with my mouth open wide in silent whoops of joy.
Elation gave way to exhaustion. I dropped to the ground and crawled to my closet bed. I ran my tongue over my teeth. Had they always been this sharp? I wondered if the dogs would still recognize me as I drifted into a dreamless sleep until a familiar voice sounded in my ear.
“Belle, look what I have for you,” said Miss Rose holding up a shiny nameplate engraved with my name.
Why would Miss Rose give me a nameplate? I tucked my head to my chest and stretched.
“That’s a pretty girl,” she said.
She said pretty. She noticed. I’m really pretty.
She patted my head.
I wagged my tail.
Wait, my tail?
Judy Salcewicz, a retired teacher, lives and writes in Lawrence. Her stories have been published in U.S. 1, The Kelsey Review, and five Chicken Soup for the Soul anthologies. Her stories have also appeared in Women’s World Magazine, The Horse Network, and Right-Hand Pointing.
