Must Love Dogs (20 page)

I didn’t know how I’d missed it before. There was something entirely too familiar here. If I got involved with John, it was probably only a matter of time until I ended up back where I’d been with Kevin. It wouldn’t be long before John and I were sitting at this table together night after night after night, our eyes glassy with indifference. I couldn’t go back to that.

John and I took turns complimenting the meal. But the evening had gone flat for me, like when you poured yourself a glass of ginger ale from a bottle you’d opened earlier, and with one sip you can tell that the bubbles have all escaped. “Sorry,” I said finally.

“For what?”

“For everything. My family. How late we’re eating. The fact that it’s almost winter. Global warming.”

He smiled. “I had fun. Really. Your family’s a lot more interesting than mine. My parents eat meals at his-and-her TV tables while they watch their favorite shows and ask each other what just happened. And I hardly ever see my sister.”

I stood up and started clearing the table. John stood up, too. “Here, let me help,” he said, walking over to the stove and picking up the rice pan.

“No, don’t bother. It’ll give me something to do later.”

“Does that mean we’re not going to play spin the bottle?” John asked, the remnants of his adolescent vulnerability all over his face.

I guess I hesitated too long. I made some coffee, and John got ready to leave as soon as we finished drinking it. We kissed each other a little tentatively at the door. Then we hugged for a moment or two; he broke the embrace first. I wasn’t sure how that made me feel. My stomach ached but probably it was only my cooking.

I tossed and turned. I kneaded my pillow, trying to prod it into a shape that would lull me to sleep. I kicked off the covers, then yanked them back up. I looked over at my clock radio at least a dozen times, surprised again and again at how slowly the digital numbers were changing.

Finally, at 3:12 a.m., I climbed out of bed, unfurled the T-shirt that had worked its way up under my armpits, pulled on the flannel pajama bottoms that lay crumpled on the floor. The floor was cold, so I rooted around in my closet looking for my slippers. The closest thing I could come up with were my silver mules. I clomped my way down the hallway and turned on the light in the bedroom that used to be Kevin’s and mine.

The room certainly seemed happier as an office than it had been in its last years as a master bedroom. The shelves that Kevin and I had partially filled with assorted stuff — his golf trophies, knickknacks from our vacations — were now packed with school stuff. Like most teachers, I had more books, games and materials, much of it bought with my own money, than I could ever fit into my classroom. And the bed was gone, thank God. When Kevin didn’t want it either, I’d called Goodwill to come take it away. A big, cozy reading chair and a computer-topped desk were the only furniture in the room. A poster of a peace lotus, which I’d bring in soon to give the kids something new to look at, lent a primitive cheerfulness to the walls.

I tried to remember the good times with Kevin. Funny how hard it was to think of any. I know we had them, but maybe the painful memories obscured the happy ones, and they were just too heavy to move out of the way. What I remembered most was that our marriage wasn’t fun. We didn’t laugh, we didn’t talk much, we’d gradually lost contact with our couples friends. We didn’t have children, we didn’t have pets, we didn’t have anything for our marriage to be about. In hindsight, I thought that some of that was Kevin’s fault and some of it was mine.

As for what I’d hoped for from my marriage, it was anybody’s guess. I was just so relieved to have someone actually want me, that I didn’t give it much thought. I’d mostly tried not to make any waves.

I reached for a large roll of white paper that I’d bought to make things for my classroom. Once, a few years ago, I’d cut a sheet the length of my largest bulletin board and covered it with drawings of flags from all over the world. Another time I’d cut a life-sized piece for each child. Working on the floor in the center of the classroom, I traced their bodies on the paper and let them draw their own clothes and hair and faces. I’d cut out the shapes when they were done, and taped them in rows, hands overlapping just a bit, all around the classroom. Paper dolls, we’d called it.

I unrolled the paper, cut off a sheet a few inches taller than I was. Pushed the rag rug out of the way, laid out the paper in the empty space. I opened a desk drawer, pulled out my markers. Found a nice shade of tan. I drew the outline of a man, from the back so I could give him a cute little butt. Made the shoulders broad, but not too wide. Gave him a narrow torso, added a bit of a roll just above the hips to make him human. Made his calves bulge a little, like he exercised, but wasn’t obsessed with it. Found a brown marker and gave him some hair. A bit long in the back because it was thinning on top. Added some yellow and silver and black because hair color didn’t matter.

I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them, I saw that, except for the cute butt, the paper figure looked an awful lot like Kevin. I found my scissors, cut him out carefully. Scooped him up under his paper shoulders, and pulled him close to me. His head kept flopping backward, so I creased it slightly until it rested on top of mine.

We danced around our old bedroom the way we had so many times before we made love. Old standards always, slow and romantic. Diana Krall singing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” or Eva Cassidy’s version of “Cheek to Cheek.” My face was wet against the paper Kevin. The marker would probably run and make a big mess. But I kept us dancing anyway, and mourned a marriage that ate up years of my life and never really got off the ground.

After I finished dancing with him, I burned paper Kevin in my fireplace. The flames licked the edges of the thin white paper, and he was dust in minutes. I went back to bed and slept like a newborn.

*

I woke up eager to start my new life. I probably should have worn a better outfit, but I couldn’t wait another second. I jumped in the shower, threw on some jeans that would definitely need to be washed after this wearing. Added a turtleneck and an old green sweatshirt on top of that. Shook my head upside down while I aimed the blow dryer in the general direction of my hair. Left the bathroom without looking in the mirror. Grabbed a handful of dry Cheerios and a ten-dollar bill on my way out the door.

I started walking toward Morning Glories. It was about two miles, and I figured I’d have a blueberry scone and a cup of coffee, use the bathroom. Then I’d walk back. After that, things were a little vague.

I swung my arms, picked up my pace, stretching out my legs until I felt alive. Not many cars were on the road in Marshbury on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. But extra cars seemed to be clumped in the driveways I passed, signs of grown-up children visiting their parents for the weekend. Gold and burgundy chrysanthemums were still clustered outside a few doorways and tucked into some of the window boxes. By the end of the week, they’d all be replaced with greenery — pine and boxwood and spruce. And Marshbury would twinkle with Christmas lights, most a tasteful white.

*

A normal-looking man of around forty was handing a leash to a gray-haired woman holding a cup of coffee. I noticed as I got closer that he was actually slightly better-looking than normal. Big mustached smile and lumberjack shoulders. He held up one finger, nodded thanks. Wrinkles, June’s puppy that I’d met at Bob Connor’s house, was on the other end of the leash. That figured, the guy was probably June’s new boyfriend. Just my luck.

I stopped anyway, smiled at the woman, bent down to give Wrinkles a pat. Realized it wasn’t Wrinkles. This puppy was bigger, more lab than shar-pei. “What’s its name?” I asked the woman.

“Oh, she’s not mine. I’m just holding the leash for another customer. I think he said its name is Crackle. Or Crispy. Oh dear, now what was it? Something unusual.” She took a sip of her coffee. The puppy stretched out and started licking a spot on the pavement where someone had dropped something. “A nice man. He said he lives down the street. He didn’t want to leave the puppy all by herself while he went in because she might be lonely.”

She might be lonely
. Only a nice, sensitive guy would worry about a puppy being lonely. “He does sound nice. Did he happen to mention if he was married?”

The woman laughed. I blushed. “No, honey, he didn’t. But I’ll ask him when he comes out if you’d like me to. Are you looking for a boyfriend?”

Oh, God. What was I thinking? It occurred to me that my hair was probably sticking out all over the place. There were grease spots on my sweatshirt and green was definitely not one of my colors. I wasn’t even wearing any mascara and now this sweet old woman was going to tell what could very well be the only normal man living in Marshbury that I was looking for a boyfriend.

Amazingly, a plan came to me. A real plan, just like Carol would have come up with. Maybe even better. The first part of it was to run before he saw me looking like this.

I circled around to the back of Morning Glories, waited until the coast was clear. I hated to miss the coffee and scone, but maybe I could come back afterward if he didn’t live too far away. I followed the man and his puppy at a safe distance, hoping he hadn’t been warned about a sloppy woman looking for a boyfriend.

About halfway between my house and Morning Glories, they walked into an old white Victorian that looked as if it had been divided into two apartments. Two mailboxes by the road. Driveway on each side, only one car on his side. No sign of anything feminine, no decorations on the door, no wife leaning out to kiss him while he trilled, like Ricky Ricardo to Lucy,
Honey, I’m home
.

I decided to skip Morning Glories. Too much to do. I jogged the rest of the way home, did some hamstring stretches, alternating my feet on the kitchen counter. Got out the phone book to look up a number. Picked up the phone. “Hi, June. How are you? It’s me, Sarah. Just calling to see how your Thanksgiving was.”

Dead silence on the other end.

“June. It’s Sarah.” Still nothing. “Hurlihy.”

“Oh, Sarah. Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing. I, uh, met your puppy the other night. Wrinkles. When Bob Connor was watching her. She’s adorable.”

“Thanks.”

“You should bring her to school one day. The kids would love it.”

“Oh. That’s why you called. Sure. Just like tell me what day?”

I thought for a minute about how to proceed. “I’d love to take Wrinkles for a walk sometime if you want. I really like puppies.”

“Okay.”

“How about later today?”

*

June lived with her parents. Her mother opened the door when I knocked. She had to be a few years older than I was but sure didn’t look it. It seemed unfair that June not only got to look like she did now, but probably had decades of good looks ahead of her, too.

“Hi. I’m Sarah Hurlihy. I’m here to see June?” I searched June’s mother’s face for signs that June had been complaining about me. She smiled without giving me a clue.

June came to the door wearing an old gray sweater over black tights. The sweater was stretched and shapeless and speckled with lint. She looked spectacular. Wrinkles careened into the entryway behind her, upturned tail wagging excitedly. She miscalculated her speed and crashed into the wall. “Ooh,” June and I said at once. I bent down and let the puppy cover my face in kisses.

“Thanks, Sarah. This is, like, such a surprise for me. I’ve been thinking you didn’t even like me or something.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, June. I’ve been preoccupied lately.” My cheeks suddenly felt hot. I’d been blushing a lot lately. I’d never really thought about hurting June’s feelings. I guess it seemed to me that if you looked like that, how could anything touch you. “Of course I like you, June.” I mean, that was basically true. I’d just like her better if she wasn’t so gorgeous. “And I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”

“That’s okay. Want me to come for a walk with you and Wrinkles?”

Oh, yeah, that might work. I walk by the normal-looking guy’s house with June, and what are my chances? “Actually, I was hoping to give you a break. Maybe some time alone. I know how much work puppies are.”

June’s eyes were already starting to glaze over. She’d be in deep meditation before I got Wrinkles into my Civic. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Next time we’ll all go. Oh, and by the way, where did you get Wrinkles?”

“At the Marshbury Animal Shelter. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

*

“Well, will you look at that. It’s like seeing double. What’s your puppy’s name?”

“Wrinkles. How ‘bout yours?”

“Creases.” We both laughed. Our eyes met, held.

“You’re kidding,” he said, looking at me and not the puppies.

“What a coincidence, huh?” If he only knew that Wrinkles and I had been dawdling on the sidewalk near his house for almost an hour in order to arrange it.

“Where did you get her? Him?”

“Her. At the Marshbury Animal Shelter.”

“You, too? That’s where I got Creases. What an amazingly small world. Creases is a him, by the way. Oh, and my name is Ray Santia.”

Ray Santia was definitely a him. Well over six feet tall, nice posture. Shiny brown eyes the same color as his long straight hair and the mustache that half-masked his smile. No beard, but he hadn’t shaved the rest of his face recently, either, and the combination of nubby cheeks and scratchy flannel shirt made me want to rub my fingertips from texture to texture. I realized he was waiting for me to say something, felt my cheeks burn with at least the third blush of the day. “Hi. Sarah. Hurlihy.”

He offered his hand. I shook it and liked the way it felt, kind of relaxed and amiable. I let go first so he wouldn’t think I was the clingy type. I told myself that it wasn’t that big a deal to be passing June’s puppy off as my own. After Ray Santia and I had bonded, I would be sure to tell him that Wrinkles belonged to a friend. A friend who was overwhelmed by puppy parenthood and needed me to bail her out. Often. Quite often, in fact.