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  “You weren’t by yourself,” I tried. “Siobhan was there, and Dad, and the little kids. Carol just needed a moment alone with me to try to run my life.”

  “That’s what I mean. Why does Carol always get to do everything? Why can’t I help you fix your life?”

  I’d distracted her by asking about a dance teacher. And until the foot, she’d been a good referral, lining up half the class facing north and the other half facing south, no talk about gender at all, even though eighteen of the twenty children were female. Slow, slow, quick, quick, they’d all managed some version of the step, turning to face all four walls, “Just a Gigolo” blasting from a portable CD player.

  I dragged myself down the hallway to Kate Stone’s office to ask for advice.

  “Why, of course, you’ll call each of the parents and give them a choice: a credit for the next session after the instructor has recovered, or continued participation in a new dance class.”

  “But I can’t find another swing dance teacher. I can’t even find any kind of dance teacher.” I tried to tone down the whine in my voice. “I’ve called everywhere.”

  “This, Sarah, is where you apply your creative problem-solving training.” Kate Stone picked up a carved wooden box from her desk, lifted the cover. “Open up, Sarah. Step out of the box and see things in a fresh way. Then seek and ye shall find.” Kate Stone rolled her office chair over to the window, pulled gently on the string at the bottom of her wind chimes. We listened for a moment to the delicate tinkle of brass before she continued. “And, Sarah, if I wanted to manage the afterschool program myself, I wouldn’t have hired you to do it.”

  Chapter 8

  The Brady kids were having so much trouble sharing the telephone that Mr. Brady was simply going to have to install a pay phone. I forgot I hadn’t finished my Cheerios yet, and took a sip of the wine I’d poured for after dinner. The wine made the milk taste a little off. I slid the cereal down to the far end of the coffee table. I took another sip of wine. One more and the milk residue was gone. This episode wasn’t quite as good as last night’s sharing-the-bathroom episode. Although who was I to criticize, since every single one of the Bradys had more of a life than I did.

  I picked up the cassette tape and opened and closed the case a few times. Taking it out, I read “Personal Ad Responses” centered neatly in Carol’s handwriting. Most of the tape was still coiled at one end, the end we hadn’t listened to. Just one, I decided. I’ll listen to just one.

  Seven thirty-eight p.m. October 18. Hi, my name is John and obviously I heard your ad. It’s a very fetching message you left. Sorry, that was supposed to be kind of a joke about dogs. You know, fetching? Never mind. What I really want to say is that you have a terrific voice. Anyway, before I forget, let me give you my number. It’s, uh, 617-555-1412. That’s downtown Boston, Beacon Hill. So all right. Um …. you’re voluptuous, sensuous, alluring and fun. Well, I think that could work. And I’m a huge dog lover, too…. I mean, not just huge dogs but any size dog. Um, okay, I guess I should start with the obvious, banal stuff first. Um, I’m forty-three, and I’m completely divorced, so don’t worry about that. I’m a little over six feet tall. I get accused of looking, uh, like Harrison Ford sometimes. Kind of blondish hair, brownish eyes and, uh, I’ve been wearing wire-rimmed glasses lately instead of my contacts. Let’s see, what else? The best time to reach me is in the evening. I love Chinese Checkers. And pizza with everything but anchovies. I hope we can get together and talk soon and see what kinds of things besides dog-loving we might have in common.

  I played John’s response four more times, and by the last time, I was able to mouth the words right along with him. I picked up the cordless phone, changed my mind and put it back down. I turned back to the television. The Bradys’ pay phone had just been delivered. It might not be the best episode, but at least with The Brady Bunch I could count on a happy ending.

  *

  “Do you remember what Johnny used to call his penis when we were kids?” I asked Carol.

  “Mr. Murphy,” Carol answered. She really did know everything. “Mom was so worried, don’t you remember? She kept asking him if there was a real Mr. Murphy and if he had ever done anything to Johnny. And Johnny would say, ‘No, just my Mr. Murphy.’ And when we were all crammed into the car, taking a trip somewhere, Johnny would say, ‘Mr. Murphy has to go to the bathroom. Right now.’ And we’d all crack up and get in trouble for making him cry.”

  “Was Johnny the one who sleepwalked into the kitchen one night and peed in the refrigerator?”

  “No, no, no. That was Michael.” Carol looked at Michael for confirmation. Michael’s hazel eyes and crooked smile came from our mother’s side of the family.

  “No way. That was Billy. I never would have peed in the refrigerator. Not my style at all.”

  “Don’t you mean Duckie never would have peed in the refrigerator?” I asked, thrilled to have some good ammunition.

  Michael leaned over to whisper in his puppy’s ear. “Don’t listen to her, Mother Teresa. She’s delusional. I have not a single childhood memory of a penis named Duckie.”

  It was Sunday night and we were leaning against the kitchen cabinets in our family house. “You can’t keep calling her Mother Teresa, Michael. She needs a real name,” Carol said, leaning over to scratch behind the Saint Bernard’s ears. The six-month-old puppy collapsed on her back on the worn linoleum. Michael and Carol and I knelt beside her.

  “Mother Teresa is a real name. And it’s loaded with good karma.” The puppy was taking up most of the kitchen floor now, her legs spread wide and the hind two twitching. Six hands scratched her belly. A thick stream of drool ran from one side of her mouth.

  “She’s going to need all the karma she can get, after that stunt with Dolly’s feather boa,” I said. Carol got up, tore a square of paper towel off the roll, and came back to dab at the corner of Mother Teresa’s mouth. In an instant, the paper towel disappeared.

  “Mother Teresa! Drop it. Drop it now.” As the puppy began to choke, Michael scooped his hands under her and, bending at the knees, tried to lift her to a standing position. Carol and I moved quickly to either side of Michael. “One, two, three,” urged Michael and we lifted the puppy to her feet.

  She was still choking so I straddled her from behind and executed a flawless Heimlich maneuver. The angle was different but fortunately the process was pretty much the same as with preschoolers. A wad of gummy paper towel shot across the room and stuck to a lower cabinet. A quick shudder passed through the still-baggy skin of the puppy’s body, and then she flopped back down to the floor and spread her legs. Michael and I knelt down again and started to scratch. Carol cleaned the paper towel glob off the cabinet.

  “Say thank you to Auntie Sarah, Mother Teresa.” Michael buried his head in the fur at the nape of the puppy’s neck. Her eyes glazed over with love. The black dots on the white fur around her nose looked like painted-on freckles.

  “That’s two strikes for you, dog,” I scolded. “Wasn’t that unbelievable when she bit off the end of Dolly’s boa? All of a sudden I looked down and she had a mouthful of pink feathers. The amazing thing was that I don’t think Dolly would have even noticed if the kids hadn’t started laughing and pointing.”

  We laughed, remembering Dolly’s face. “So, Michael,” Carol asked. “How come Phoebe didn’t come tonight?”

  Michael shrugged. “She stayed home to read a book. I don’t think she cares much about getting in good with my family these days. She says we tell too many old stories and that it always makes her feel left out.”

  “Kevin used to say that too,” I said. Carol gave me a dirty look. “I mean, not that that means anything,” I added quickly. We all knew that Michael’s marriage was in trouble, but while it was all right to whisper about it behind his back, it was not something we talked about openly. I wondered if all families behaved this way. I tried not to think about what they hadn’t said in front of me about Kevin.

  Dad pushed th
e kitchen door until it swung open just enough for his head to fit through the opening. He looked at Mother Teresa sternly. “You, my four-footed friend, are in deep shit.” He held out a plastic bag, a flash of pink poking out of the top. Mother Teresa was on her feet in an instant. Michael grabbed her by the collar. “Michael, I’d be the happiest man alive if you could find a way to replace this with one of the original length.”

  Michael reached for the bag. “Okay, Dad. I’m really sorry. She’s just a puppy.” Mother Teresa made a lunge. I moved faster and whisked the bag to safety.

  As usual, Carol had an idea. “Perfect, Sarah. You can shop for a new boa for Dolly. Take the old one with you so you get a good match, then throw it out afterward. I’ll give you a list of stores to try. Maybe pick up some nice underwear for yourself while you’re at it. Just in case.”

  My father nodded as if he thought it was a perfectly reasonable idea, but of course he was dating a woman who wore a pink feather boa to Sunday dinner. We heard a distinct crash. “Those good-looking grandchildren of mine out there might need a little supervision. I’m going to run Dolly home.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t wait up.”

  We talked until the Miata was long gone, then turned out some of the lights and locked the door. We packed the kids and Mother Teresa into their respective cars to drive off to our other homes. I was about to head out, alone, when Michael walked over to my car. I rolled down my window. “Hey,” I said. “You okay?”

  Michael rubbed an index finger back and forth under one of his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine, just checking up on you. You need anything?”

  “No, I’m all right. But thanks.”

  “Are you, um, getting out or anything?” Even in the dark, he looked embarrassed. I probably did, too. “I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, it’s not that. There’s just not much to talk about.” Behind us in Michael’s car, Annie or Lainie started to flash the high beams off and on. Mother Teresa barked.

  “Well, maybe you should push yourself a little.” He waved at the kids, who responded by flashing the lights faster. It felt a little like being in a disco. “I know it’s gotta be tough, but, Sarah, you have a chance to make a whole new life, you know? You just have to get out there and meet someone.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. Who would want me?”

  “Come on, Sarah. Lots of guys would want to go out with you. You’re smart, you’re funny. You’re even kinda pretty when you’re not wallowing in self-pity.”

  My whole life, my brothers had teased me, making fun of my outfits, pointing out my pimples, belittling my boyfriends. Michael being this nice to me made me want to cry. “Okay, Michael,” I said, not daring to look in his eyes. “I’ll try.”

  *

  I stripped down to my underwear, a graying cotton sports bra and nylon panties that had seen better days. Rifling through the mess on my closet floor, I found the open-toed silver Italian mules I’d bought and never worn. They were the only backless shoes I owned. Besides two pairs of boiled wool clogs.

  I tried not to clomp on the way to the kitchen. I’d thought these shoes would make me feel as glamorous as, say, Sophia Loren or Gina Lollobrigida, but every time I tried them on with an outfit, I’d look at my feet in the mirror and laugh. After a year or so, I gave up on them.

  I reached to the back of the cabinet under the kitchen sink, found the Lysol. I picked up the plastic bag from the counter, and shook out the boa until it collapsed on the floor like a dying pink flamingo. I sprayed the exposed side thoroughly, then flipped it over with the edge of the Lysol can and sprayed again. I wasn’t quite sure if I was disinfecting Mother Teresa’s drool or what my nieces and nephews would call Dolly’s cooties.

  The boa was looking a little damp and matted; the bedraggled feathers decreased its drama potential. I put it in the dryer and pushed delicate cycle then start. While I was waiting, I checked my answering machine. Nothing. Not even Carol.

  A quick tumble in the dryer did wonders for the boa. I wrapped it around my shoulders. The warmth and fluff were encouraging. I held the boa by both ends and jump-roped the length of the kitchen, not an easy feat in mules. When I stopped, a few pink feathers floated in the air. I slid my hands closer together along the boa, let it fall behind my shoulders and shimmied for a bit. Added a step-kick, then a step- kick-kick. Then a long low hip circle and a couple of bumps.

  Okay, this is it, I decided. I walked into my bedroom, lit a candle. Turned the lights down low with the dimmer switch by the door. The tape deck was on the bedside table. I played John’s message, said the words along with him as I paraded around the room. Hi, my name is John and obviously I heard your ad. It’s a very fetching message you left. Sorry, that was supposed to be kind of a joke about dogs. You know, fetching? Never mind. What I really want to say is that you have a terrific voice.

  It had been a long time since I’d had a compliment from a man. I supposed that technically it was Carol’s compliment, since she’d recorded my message, but I decided to take it anyway. I wrapped the boa around my neck a few times, sprawled on the bed with my legs arranged seductively. I looked down at my feet, still wearing the mules. Considered painting my toenails.

  You have a terrific voice, I repeated. Then I picked up the phone. And I called him.

  Chapter 9

  I figured I’d go through Michael’s wife, Phoebe, to borrow Mother Teresa for a couple of hours. Less chance of word leaking out that way. Phoebe was an only child and had never developed a talent for mining sibling gossip.

  I was wearing black jeans that looked good either standing or sitting, plus a cuddly red fleece jacket that had big pockets so I wouldn’t have to think about what to do with my keys. My hair was having a good day, curling crisply rather than frizzily, for which I was thankful. I felt as if anything were possible. This was more than meeting up with a man. It was staking a claim on a life. Grabbing some gusto. Catching a wave. Well, maybe not catching a wave, but still.

  “Did Michael talk you into this?” asked Phoebe as she struggled to hook a hot pink leash onto the puppy’s matching collar. As soon as she attached it, Mother Teresa grabbed the other end in her mouth and started to walk herself out the door. “Get her! Oh my God, this dog is driving me crazy.” Now that she mentioned it, Phoebe did look slightly deranged. Her straight blond hair didn’t seem to know in which direction to fall, and her pale blue eyes looked lost, too.

  “No, it was my idea. Just thought you could use a little break. I’d offer to take the kids, too, but I really need a workout. Mother Teresa and I are going for a very long walk. Could be hours. I’ll make it up to Annie and Lainie next time.”

  “That’s fine. They have homework anyway. And the girls are a piece of cake compared to Her Holiness here.” Mother Teresa looked up at Phoebe adoringly, then leaned her body into Phoebe’s thigh. Phoebe took a few quick steps backward and braced herself against the wall.

  I buckled Mother Teresa into the front seat of my Honda Civic. She seemed to like it and, keeping her eyes on the road, began to gum the seat belt contentedly. It was kind of nice to have company. The twenty- minute ride to the puppy playground was over before I knew it.

  We entered a chain-linked gate with a sign that said welcome to puppy paradise. I sat on a green park bench. Mother Teresa jumped up beside me. I unbuckled her leash. “Go play with the other puppies, honey.” I elbowed her. “Come on, don’t be shy.” She put her head in my lap and looked around cautiously.

  I looked around, too, for someone who resembled Harrison Ford. Maybe even wearing his Indiana Jones hat. Probably from the second episode, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Daredevil archaeologist hot on the trail of the legendary Ankara Stone. And a ruthless cult that has enslaved hundreds of children. I would have been a less whiny costar than Kate Capshaw. I could have kept up with all the action, wouldn’t even have considered a stunt double.

  A man leaning against a concrete tunnel was glancing my way. Actually, he se
emed to be glancing surreptitiously at my breasts. I looked down, thinking Mother Teresa might have left a conspicuous deposit of drool. Nothing. I looked back up. Harrison Ford he was not.

  It couldn’t be him. This guy was actually kind of cute, but he definitely wasn’t over six feet tall, more like five-nine or five-ten. Although maybe he just looked shorter from a distance. I tried to remember what else his message had said. Let’s see, he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, though the effect was more Michael J. Fox than Harrison Ford. He was a little pale, too, and had shiny hair it would be a stretch to call blondish, though maybe tannish would fit. I searched for some hint of Harrison — his wry grin, the confident sway of his shoulders, the way his whole body smoldered with intensity. Nothing.

  I scanned the playground for more desirable possibilities. Two exceptionally gorgeous guys who had eyes only for each other. Their Jack Russell terrier frolicked nearby. A couple of mother-child-lab combos. A sweet old guy and his beagle. Jeesh.

  Mother Teresa jumped down from the bench. “Good girl,” I said encouragingly. She waited while I scratched behind her ears; then she lumbered off toward the concrete tunnel, stopping to sniff every couple of feet. When she was a few yards from the tunnel, a Yorkshire terrier exploded from within, a tiny yelping whirlwind of tricolored fur. Mother Teresa froze, except for her tail, which continued to wag hopefully.

  The Yorkie was almost under Mother Teresa’s nose when she stopped. Her barking got louder, the pitch higher. I didn’t know about Mother Teresa, but the little yapper was certainly getting on my nerves.

  “Clementine, sit!” the man who was not Harrison Ford ordered. Mother Teresa sat. The Yorkie kept barking. She was jumping up and down on her hind legs. Mother Teresa slid to the ground and buried her head between her front paws. The Yorkie backed off a couple of hops but kept barking.