Must Love Dogs: (Book 1) Page 3

  "Hundreds. You?"

  "About the same."

  We drove for a while, past manicured lawns with water views. I glanced casually at the speedometer. "I'm pretty sure the speed limit's thirty-five here."

  "My father goes fifty," Siobhan said as she slowed down. "So why did Kevin leave you, anyway?"

  "Leave me?"

  "Yeah. I mean, like, wasn't the sex any good?"

  "Sex?"

  "Yeah. I mean, like, my parents are still disgusting. You'd think they'd be sick of doing it by now." We stopped abruptly at a yellow light, then drove through. "And Maeve could be mine practically. That's my mother, though. Just keep having babies and then ignoring them when they're not kittens anymore."

  I hoped she wasn't expecting me to say anything. I reminded myself never to teach kids older than preschool. About a mile from her house, Siobhan turned on her blinker like a pro, then pulled to the side of the road. She put the minivan into park. Leaning back, she worked a pack of cigarettes loose from her waistband, offered me one. I shook my head no.

  "Well," she said. "At least you and Kevin didn't have any kids."

  . . . . .

  Of course, Siobhan couldn't really drive me home because she only had a learner's permit, and wouldn't be able to get back to her house legally without an adult in the car. This was the kind of little detail my family tended to overlook when I was involved. So, we drove to Carol and Dennis's house, and Carol came out and took over for Siobhan. And now, after what seemed like an awful lot of riding around just to get home, Carol was sitting on my couch. Her feet were on my coffee table, her shoes under it, and she was sipping a glass of the Australian Chardonnay she'd brought. "Thanks again for daring to drive with Evel Knievel. Did I tell you that Dennis calls her Karate Mouth? As in her mouth should be registered as a lethal weapon?"

  "She's a good kid."

  "Thanks for remembering. God, was I that bad at her age?"

  "I think you just hid it better so Mom wouldn't wash your mouth out with soap. Remember when she did that to Billy after he called her queer? I never did get if that was about disrespect or alleged sexual preference."

  "I'm pretty sure 'queer' was still just odd then. Mom certainly wouldn't have known if it was more than that. Anyway, Siobhan would call Social Services if we tried something like that. Or hire a lawyer."

  I took a sip of my wine and asked Carol, because she knew everything, if Marlene was June's mother's best friend's neighbor.

  "No, no, no," Carol answered, swirling the wine around in her glass. "Marlene is the ex-wife of Jonas Swift. Huge trust fund money. Generous patron of the Cambridge Symphony Orchestra. Rumor has it that Marlene slept her way through an entire section of the CSO."

  I tried to reconcile this with my image of Marlene, hat removed to reveal a crisp gray French braid, snuggled up to Dad. "Which section?" I asked finally.

  "I think it was the horn section."

  I thought some more. "Maybe that explains the shoes. Her predisposition to brass."

  Carol put her feet on the floor and leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Yeah, maybe she has a trophy collection. You know, shoes with saxophone buckles. Tuba earrings. Bugle barrettes for her hair. A way to keep track of her progress, to make sure she doesn't miss any instruments."

  I rolled the story around a bit. I liked it. It was much more interesting than the possibility that money didn't buy taste and Marlene was simply a horrible dresser. As I pondered whether to embellish the story or let it rest, I flicked my wineglass with a fingernail, trying to play a note. Instead I created a mini tidal wave that splashed over the edge. Since it was white wine and not red, I rubbed it discreetly into my jeans, then asked, "So, what about the brother?"

  "He's the CEO of Wilson Electronics. Big bucks. Supposed to be brilliant. Currently unattached."

  "I can see why. That nose hair."

  A big-sister look came over Carol's face. I could feel a lecture in the air, and stiffened in anticipation. "Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. Everybody has something. Dennis had ear wax when we met. Gobs of it. But I didn't let that get in the way of the big picture. I waited an appropriate length of time, and then—"

  "Bought him a box of Q-tips?"

  "No, no, no. I discreetly pointed it out, pretending it was the first time I noticed. I think I told him how relieved I was to find out that he wasn't absolutely perfect."

  Disgusting, I thought. Dennis had lots of other faults. He was an asshole, for starters, but there was probably no point breaking that particular bit of news to Carol. I took another sip of wine and waited for something conversational to pop into my head.

  "Kevin used to sit on the toilet for hours, reading the newspaper. With the bathroom door open and his pants around his ankles."

  "They all do that."

  I hadn't realized that. I wondered for a minute if Kevin and I would still be together if I had known. "It wasn't a very erotic pose. It got so that every time we made love I'd think of it. Him on the toilet. That and the sound he made gargling. Sort of like this . . ." I tilted the last bit of wine into my mouth, and tried to gargle like Kevin. Instead, I choked and laughed at the same time. A smidgen of wine exited through my nose.

  "Yeah, and, meanwhile, you're such a class act, Sarah. Here, I'll go get us some more."

  While Carol was refilling our glasses in the kitchen, I tried to isolate the exact thing that had made my marriage to Kevin not work out. Besides him screwing around with another woman. I don't know, it just seemed that at first so much time was taken up by when and where and how often we'd have sex. Then after that, there was all that planning for the wedding. Then looking for a house, and finding it, and decorating it, and having people over to see it.

  Until one day, we looked at each other across the kitchen table, and I realized we had absolutely nothing to say. I suppose it was probably just time to have children. We'd talked about it some, but Kevin was never quite ready. I was thirty-five, then thirty-six, then thirty-seven, which seemed way past ready and getting close to too late.

  But instead of children, Kevin decided to have Nicole. Nikki. Chatty as hell and ten years younger than I am. I found out, he left, and at this very minute, Kevin and Nikki were probably having my children. I hoped never to know for sure, even though I was certain the information would find me immediately. Someone would probably call to say when they'd had sex without birth control.

  God hates glib. I could almost hear my mother say it, although I'd lost the precise sound of her voice shortly after she died. That and the sophisticated crunch she made when she chewed cornflakes, a sound I tried my whole childhood to imitate. God hates ugly and God hates a smarty-pants were also part of our family lexicon. Quoting God in this way was not at all about religion, but about bringing in enough clout to give the speaker irrefutable authority on a subject.

  God hates glib. We all said it to each other, yet we were proud of our glibness. We polished it until it shone; it was our family shield. When Carol's first boyfriend's best friend phoned her to break up for him, which was only fitting since he'd also been the surrogate who asked her to go steady, she hunched over the telephone table at the bottom of the stairs. We loitered in the hallway behind her, smelling tragedy. Carol hung up, rearranged her face when she saw us. "That was Davy Jones," she said. "They're thinking it might be time for a girl Monkee." We waited to see if she'd crack. "I told him I'd consider the offer," she finished before running up the stairs.

  As if summoned by her decades-old line, Carol walked back into my living room, a replenished wineglass in each hand, Dad's personal ad tucked under her chin. "Carol, what are you doing snooping around my stuff?"

  "Hey, it was right on your refrigerator, underneath one of those tacky favorite teacher magnets."

  "Sorry. I guess I was so traumatized I forgot about it." I waited while Carol read it through a couple of times.

  "This is great. No wonder you went out with him."

  "I didn't," I started to say before I saw Carol
's big grin. I gave her the dirty look I'd been giving her since we were kids.

  Carol didn't even bother to return the look. "Okay, Sarah, what's the next plan?"

  "What do you mean?" I asked. I understood the concept of planning, even vaguely remembered that it was once part of my repertoire.

  "Have you answered any other ads?"

  "Now there's a good idea. Maybe I can date an uncle. Forget about it, Carol. I'm done answering personal ads."

  "Then we'll just have to place one of your own. And not in the local paper. We'll go right to Boston. It'll be good for you to broaden your horizons a little. Plus, if we do it that way, you'll have all the control."

  I was starting to wonder if Carol was planning to date for me. Not a bad idea, actually. She could be my surrogate dater, and I'd get to stay home, read a good book, maybe 101 Places to Hide from Your Family or Never Too Old for the Convent. I sat back and let her write the ad.

  "The first thing we have to do is to invoke a mood. That's why Dad's ad worked so well. And we have to have a built-in test to weed out the sickos. Think, Sarah. What's the best indicator of a person's humanity?"

  "I don't know, what?"

  "Come on, help me out a little. Okay, don't they say dogs and children can always tell who's nice and who's just pretending to be?"

  "Yeah, the loves-dogs-and-children part was what got me in Dad's ad."

  "Well, you certainly can't say anything about kids, you'll scare 'em off. We want you to avoid any hint of desperation. You have to sound as if you can afford to be choosy, whether or not that's remotely true."

  If I'd had more motivation I'd probably have been feeling insulted by now. Instead, while I watched Carol scribble away, I wondered if Siobhan was right about it being a good thing that Kevin and I had never had kids. If, even though I'd ended up losing my husband, I'd still managed to gain a child or two along the way, would I be less of a failure? At the very least, I'd have a good excuse to put off dating. Mothering, I'd say, with a hint of the martyr in my voice, it's simply all I have time for.

  Instead, not only was I childless, but I felt like a child myself, and I missed my own mother. If she were still alive, she would have helped me find a new life by now. I even missed Kevin. No, it was more that I missed the idea of Kevin. Having a husband, even one I barely talked to, had given me a certain status, a respectability, a belonging. I had a place in the world. I knew what I'd be doing tomorrow, even if it wasn't particularly interesting. I felt anxiety rise in my chest like mercury up an old thermometer. I decided to think instead about the kind of dog I'd get if I had the energy to commit even to a four-footed someone who might need something from me.

  Carol finished the ad, made two copies, and handed me one on her way out the door. "I'll call you tomorrow, and we'll discuss any possible revisions," she said.

  After sitting quietly for a few minutes, I finally read it:

  Barely 40 DWF, absolutely childless, seeks special man. Please be intelligent, articulate and fun. Minimal time spent reading on toilet a plus. Must love dogs.

  Chapter

  Five

  I have a theory that adult personality can be accurately predicted by the way a three-, four- or five-year-old handles circle time. June and I were sitting with the students on our classroom circle, a long strip of neon pink vinyl tape stuck to the carpet. Green and yellow and orange dots were arranged on top of the circle to designate individual places.

  Back in September, when the children first gathered for circle time, we placed laminated name tags on the floor in front of their dots. Brittany would see her name in block letters, along with the sticker with a picture of a cow she had chosen herself. Finding her place was a complicated process of discovering her cow, "reading" her name, locating the adjacent dot and successfully bringing her body in for a landing on it.

  In a good year, the name tags would be removed some time during October, and even the youngest children would be able to find their places without them. Then we would begin circle games, marching and dancing and choo-choo training around the ring of tape, only to finish the game and sit down on a new dot. There were children who were simply undone by someone else sitting on what had become their dot. Some melted into tears; others pounded the encroachers with clenched fists.

  Today we began circle time with sharing—who had a new puppy, who was wearing new shoes. It was Austin Connor's turn and, as usual, he had a lot to say. He was almost five, having just missed the kindergarten cutoff, and precociously verbal with parrotlike recall. He had already told us that his parents were "taking a break from their marriage" because his father was "incorrigible." Some of the kids looked up with vague interest.

  I broke in to tell the children we were now going to learn the Danish Dance of Greeting. It was one of my favorite dances, from an old Kimbo Educational cassette. First we found Denmark on a big blowup vinyl globe and passed it around the circle. The children nodded seriously. Then we found the United States on the globe and measured the distance by holding our arms wide. Far away, we all agreed.

  We stood up, June pressed the play button on the tape deck and we danced: Clap clap bow, Clap clap bow, Stamp, Stamp, Turn yourself around. So far, so good. Then way up to tippy-toes and we set off around the circle. We stopped when the music did and took a final bow. "Look down," I said cheerily, "and sit on a new dot."

  Several round faces looked at me in horror. Therapy up the road, I predicted. Anal retentiveness, eating disorders, obsessive-compulsive behavior, extreme perfectionism. Maybe a run for political office.

  Austin's customary dot was the orange one closest to the door. He sat for a minute on a green dot across the way, then sighed. Standing up quickly, he made his way back to his original space, where Molly Greene was now sitting. Very politely, he said, "Excuse me, could you please move your vagina? It's on top of my dot."

  Later, when the kids were out of earshot, I asked June, "How old were you when you first said that word?"

  "What word?"

  "The word that Austin said."

  "Oh, vagina. I don't know, I guess about the same age. Why?"

  . . . . .

  "Vagina," I said to the steering wheel on my ride home. I made my voice a little bit deeper. "Vagina. Vagina, vagina." I tried "penis" to see if it was easier. Growing up at my house, the boys all had nicknames for their penises. Michael's was Duckie. He used to talk to it while he played in the bathtub, and Christine and I listened from the other side of the bathroom door. Billy's was Herman and I forget what Johnny's was. The girls figured we didn't have anything to name, I guess. And by the time we'd grown breasts, we were too old for the name game.

  As soon as I got in the door, I pulled a liter bottle of seltzer from the refrigerator and took a long drink. It was one of the guilty pleasures of living alone, drinking right from the bottle and not having to worry about spreading germs to anyone. That and not having to sit down to eat a meal. Then I checked my phone messages—just one from Carol. I thought about ignoring it, but knew she'd simply call again.

  "Oh, my God, listen to this," Carol said as soon as I admitted it was me on the other end: "Radiant, soulful dynamo, drop-dead gorgeous inside/out, 5'4", brown/ brown, naturally slim DWF, 38, seeks compassionate, emotionally aware, funny, curious, creative, sensuous, ambitious, genuinely nice S/WW/DWM, 33-48."

  "Geez."

  "Yeah, they're all like that. I think we're going to have to buff yours up a bit. Definitely drop the joke about the toilet seat, nobody would get it anyway, and make you sound a little more glamorous."

  "Okay, whatever. Listen, I'm going to make some dinner now. So, let me know if you need any help or anything."

  "Sarah, it's your ad. Show a little interest."

  "Okay, what's WW?"

  "Widowed."

  "Why not just W?"

  "Because that's for white."

  "Fascinating. It's a whole new world. I'm going to go eat now, okay?"

  "Jesus, Sarah. Okay, I'll enhance it a l
ittle, and call you back so you can phone it in."

  "What? Can't you just mail it?"

  "No. You record it over the phone, too. They still print the ads in the newspaper, but people can also just browse by phone. They give you a voicemail box and anyone who wants to meet you leaves a message there. That way you can screen your responses. And guess what? The first eighteen words are free."

  "Great. I'm going to go eat now, Carol. Good-bye."

  I have an old frying pan that I've had ever since my mother let me take it to my first apartment. It's about half the size of an average cast-iron pan, and perfectly oiled and seasoned from years of use. I opened a can of Prudence corned beef hash at both ends. Using two fingers, I shoved the whole meat and potato cylinder out one end and into the pan. I flattened it evenly into the bottom until it made the thick round shape of a smiley face. I carved out two holes for eyes and made a great big slash of a smiley mouth.

  I washed out that morning's cereal bowl, shook it dry, cracked three eggs into it. Then I scooped out two of the yolks and threw them away to make the meal guilt-free. I scrambled the rest of the eggs with a fork, adding pepper and freeze-dried chives, then poured them into the open spaces.

  While dinner cooked, I opened a Sam Adams Octoberfest and drank from the bottle. I burped and didn't have to say excuse me to anyone. I jumped up to sit on the kitchen counter, and dangled my feet, bouncing my heels against the cabinets. The black soles of my shoes would probably make scuff marks on the white cabinets. Oh, well.

  I sipped my beer until the eggs were set. I tried singing a few lines of "Blues in the Night" into the mouth of the bottle, even though I knew it made me look like a loser. "Sarah," I said aloud, "you are such a loser."

  I picked up the only potholder Kevin didn't take with him when he left. He said he was taking the potholders because he did most of the cooking anyway. As if it would matter who used to cook when he was gone. I wrapped the potholder around the handle of the frying pan, picked up a fork with my other hand, and ate the whole thing, smiley face, smiley mouth, smiley eyes, right from the pan.