Must Love Dogs (25 page)

“Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. I’ve only been married to him for almost two decades.”

“So, what’s the up side?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The kids are great, even Siobhan, sometimes. He’s a good dad. I love him. And he still makes me laugh.”

“Kevin never made me laugh.” It was probably a slight exaggeration, but it had the feel of truth. “He didn’t really listen to me either. I could tell when he was pretending to. He’d repeat the last two words of everything I said.”

Carol took a sip and considered this. “You mean like, if you said, ‘Oh, Kevin, you have such a nice ass,’ he’d say, ‘Nice ass’?”

“Yeah, and if I said, ‘I want to wrap you in Saran Wrap,’ he’d say….”

“Saran Wrap,” we yelled together. We laughed and laughed. Our laughter was the kind that comes in spasms, and hurts your stomach after a while, even if you didn’t just get it pierced.

Just as I was walking Carol to the door, Mother Teresa burst in. If my life kept up, I was going to have to think about installing a revolving door.

Michael was right behind her. “Mother Teresa, sit!” he tried. Mother Teresa trotted a few laps around the kitchen, then headed down the hallway, probably looking for greener pastures.

Michael started after her. “Let her go,” I said. “She’s fine.” Michael shrugged, stood just inside the door to let the snow melt onto the kitchen mat. “Gee, Michael, have you been trying to reach me? I haven’t been answering the phone.” I unwrapped the towel from the ice pack, which I put back in the freezer. Maybe I was just getting used to the pain, but my stomach didn’t seem to be throbbing at all now.

“No.” Michael clomped over, sat in a kitchen chair, rubbed his face with both hands.

“Did you hear I got my navel pierced?”

“No, sorry. I guess I missed the news bulletin.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Phoebe kicked us out. Both of us. I was hoping Mother Teresa and I could move in with you for a while. Just till I figure what to do?”

“Of course you can, Michael.”

“No, he can’t.” Carol stepped back out of her boots, walked around to sit across from Michael at the table. “Don’t be an idiot, Michael. It’s almost Christmas. Go home, tell Phoebe you’re sorry, even if you’re not. Tell her you love her, love the kids, all that stuff. And leave the dog here.”

Michael looked as if he was about to cry. “I’m just so sick and tired of fighting over every single little thing. If it weren’t for the girls….”

“So don’t fight,” Carol said. “And if Phoebe starts something, don’t fight back.”

“Well, I’ve tried that. But then she says I’m giving her the silent treatment.”

I didn’t know quite how to say it. “I don’t get it, Michael. You and Phoebe, what exactly is your problem?”

Michael put his head down by his knees and scratched his scalp with both sets of fingernails. “Good question,” he said. He sat up, rubbed his hands back and forth from his knees to his thighs. “We’re just so different. I like to stay home. She wants to go out more. She thinks the kids need structure. I think they should have fun like we did growing up. I don’t know, it all sounds so small, but it’s exhausting.”

“Well,” Carol said, “you’re not going to solve any of it if you move in here.”

As soon as I handed Michael a beer, my father arrived. In my family, when one person showed up, another was sure to follow, as if there was some natural law of synchronicity. So I wasn’t even surprised to see him. If he’d given me the chance, I would have asked what took him so long.

But of course Dad had his own opening line. “I have the distinct impression that my very own family is smack-dab in the middle of a party to which I was not invited.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “And we almost got away with it.” He took another sip of his beer. “How’s it going, Dad?”

“Can’t complain, Mikey-boy. Can’t complain at all. I was just headin’ home, saw the cars in the driveway.” He watched as Michael took a long, sad sip of beer. “Hey, what’s your tale, nightingale?”

Michael stood up, poured the rest of the beer down the sink. He walked over to our father, managed to shake his hand and hug him at the same time. “Nothing, Dad. I gotta go. I just stopped by because I hadn’t heard from Sarah in a while.”

I slid my feet into my father’s boots and followed Michael out to his car to get Mother Teresa’s things. “Michael, you know you’re always welcome here. We’ll just have to hide you from Carol.”

Michael smiled sadly. “Thanks. Carol’s right, though, about staying here not helping things. I guess I’ve got to try talking to Phoebe. I mean, really try. God, I hate this stuff. I’m just so bad at it.”

“Maybe it’s genetic. But, Michael, if I have one big regret about my marriage with Kevin……” I took a breath, traced a squiggly line through the snow on Michael’s car with my bare finger. “You know, when we just started drifting apart, it’s that, well, I wish I’d tried a little harder.”

Michael loaded me up with Mother Teresa’s food and bowls and toys, and said he’d be back for her tomorrow. Then he kissed me on the top of my head and said thanks.

*

Mother Teresa had her head in my lap. We were sitting on the floor, across the coffee table from Dad and Carol. “You’re a good cook, Sarah. All my girls are good cooks, thank the good Lord.” He was finishing the macaroni and cheese, which had certainly been a hit. “So what were you kiddos talking about when your old dad walked in?”

I waited for Carol to answer. She was pouring the last of the Merlot for Dad, while I leaned across Mother Teresa to fill our glasses with seltzer. “Oh, you know, Dad. Life and love and why people stay together and why they don’t.”

My father nodded. “Well, I can’t say I haven’t cast an eyeball at that question a few times in my life. How a saint like your mother ever fell for a flutter bum like me….”

“She was crazy about you, Dad. We all know that.” I looked at Carol for confirmation. She smiled vacantly, probably still reliving her condom adventures.

“Well, if I had to put it down to any one thing, I’d have to say the great magic for me was that I never once stopped wanting to know what your mother thought about something. Couldn’t wait to get home to tell her some crazy thing. All day long I’d be saving up stories to razzle-dazzle her with at night. Even now, when something happens, I think about how I’m going to tell it to her.” He wiped what might have been a tear from his eye, took a sip of wine. Carol sighed.

I scratched Mother Teresa behind her ears. My father continued. “I still talk to your mother every night. Tonight I’ll tell her how happy I was to spend time with two of my girls. How Carol still has her eyes, and Christine has her lovely smile.”

“Sarah, Dad. Sarah.”

“Just making sure you’re awake, Sarry girl.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “And I won’t breathe a word to her about this belly button nonsense. I don’t want her to think I’m letting our little girls turn into a bunch of floozies.”

*

Carol was the last to leave. We hugged carefully at the door. “Thanks, Carol. And thanks for helping out with Michael. I would have just let him move in. You’re right, of course. He and Phoebe have too much going for them to let a little fight split them up.”

“What are you talking about? Michael and Phoebe don’t have a prayer.”

“What?”

“Phoebe’s spoiled and entitled and if she’s not falling apart about Mother Teresa, she’ll just find something else.”

How was I ever going to learn to see this stuff? I wondered if there was a course I could take. I wondered how Carol and I emerged from the same gene pool. “So, why’d you send him back home, Carol? I don’t get it.”

“What’s not to get? It’s Christmas, he’s got kids and a wife, and how much fun could it be for him here with you?”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Carol zipped up her parka, put a hand on the doorknob. “Any other questions?”

“Yeah, about Dad. Do you buy all that stuff about him still talking to Mom?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“That’s nice. Sad, maybe, but nice.”

“But, Sarah, factor in that this is also a man who’s dating at least two women. That we know of.”

I waved to Carol as she backed out of the driveway. Mother Teresa joined me at the door. I held on to her collar, and we stood for a while with our faces peeking out into the cold, flaky night. I didn’t know about Mother Teresa, but I was wondering why anyone ever ended up with anyone.

*

Bob Connor called and said he had a better offer. He picked me up early Saturday night and we drove to the highway and headed south. “Come on, tell me,” I pleaded, even though I was thrilled not to have any idea where we were going. I was also a little bit relieved to be getting out of town, since I still wasn’t comfortable being seen with the father of one of my students. Apparently, though, not so uncomfortable that I wasn’t doing it anyway.

“Not on your life. The element of surprise is a part of my strategy.
Ms. Hurlihy
.”

I watched Bob’s profile as we drove around the Cape Cod rotary, took a break to appreciate the view over the sides of the Sagamore Bridge, turned back again to Bob. “Well,” I said, probably fishing for a compliment, “I hope I’m at least dressed for wherever it is we’re going.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. You’d be perfect anyway.”

I looked down at my outfit with alarm. “Does that mean I’m dressed wrong?” I’d figured on dinner and decided on a black skirt and tights with a soft orchid sweater.

“No, Sarah, it means you’d be amazingly gorgeous no matter what you wore.” He took his eyes off the road and looked me up and down. “That was the part where I butter you up. Another integral part of my strategy.”

“And what strategy might that be, Mr. Connor? Or is that a secret, too?”

“No secret at all. I’m bound and determined to get you to fall for me. Hook, line and sinker.”

*

It’s probably not the type of restaurant I would have chosen
, I thought, as I looked at Bob Connor in the flickering candlelight. The safari theme was a bit overdone, so many animal prints in so little space. The table appeared to have been made from an elephant foot with a round of glass placed on top of it. I was afraid to ask if it was real. Bob and I sat on big, overstuffed pillows, I assumed because the table was so short.

“Pretty exotic, huh?” Bob said. “And this is just the beginning of our little walk on the wild side.” He picked up his bloodred glass of wine and clinked it against my glass of white. “To us.”

“To us,” I repeated, trying out the sound of it.

I was half-expecting the menu to have things like ostrich and buffalo, but instead it was an orgy of more traditional fare like pasta primavera and baked stuffed seafood casserole. I searched for something not swimming in cheese sauce, finally decided on the grilled swordfish. Bob ordered the steak-and-seafood medley. “Variety,” he said, “the spice of life.”

Bob was thoroughly attentive throughout the meal. He charmed me, cajoled me, sweet-talked me. I basked in the warmth of his flattery, the luxury of his focus.

While we were sipping our coffee, he reached over and held my hand. “There’s more to the surprise,” he said.

“I had a feeling.”

“I reserved the Huggles and Bubbles Suite.”

“What kind of a safari name is that?”

“Who cares?”

*

It is very disorienting to wake up in a round bed. It doesn’t help to peer across the room through an opaque cloud of mosquito netting to a heart-shaped Jacuzzi, no longer frothing with foam, but a presence all the same. There were several possible reasons why I’d ended up here. Perhaps it was because I was dying to see what the room would look like. Not sleeping with Ray might have made me statistically and hormonally more apt to sleep with the next guy. Bob was cute and funny and I liked him. And it had been so very long since I’d slept with anyone. Besides Mother Teresa.

And once I’d ended up in this room, it wasn’t like I could exactly say,
Wow, isn’t this something
, and turn around and walk out. There was a bottle of champagne in a zebra-print wine bucket, a single red rose on the edge of the Jacuzzi, a packet of condoms placed casually on the pillow. Bob put his arms around me and we kissed. He sort of danced me backward over to the Jacuzzi, reached down to turn the water on full blast, then slowly removed my clothes. We kissed some more while I helped him slide out of his, and we managed to step together into the Jacuzzi without breaking our kiss.

Sex with Bob Connor was even more fun than dinner in the safari room. There were, of course, certain similarities.

Now, the morning after, curled up next to him in our round bed, tracing my fingertips lightly over his skin, I decided that whatever awkwardness might result at school was well worth it. I could get used to sleeping with Bob Connor.

He rolled over and groaned. “Jesus, what time is it?”

“A little after nine.” I hooked my leg over one of his.

“Shit.” He pulled his leg out from under mine. He sat up, stretched, slid off the edge of the round bed and under the mosquito netting. He walked naked to the bathroom, shut the bathroom door partway, and I heard him pee, long and loud. The jolt of the shower turning on followed.

I thought about following him into the bathroom, surprising him by joining him in the shower, but it seemed a bit pushy. Instead, I got up, lowered the lever to let the Jacuzzi drain a little, then turned the faucets on. I tiptoed over to the bathroom, peeked inside and grabbed a washcloth and towel and a paper-wrapped bar of soap from the sink. Leaning over the side of the heart-shaped Jacuzzi, I washed up, splashed some water into my mouth and spit it back out a few times. Then I dried off and put last night’s clothes back on. My black tights bagged at the knees just like Molly Greene’s always did at school.

Eventually Bob came out with his towel wrapped around his waist. He stretched his arms wide and yawned. “God, do I need a toothbrush,” he said. “You set to go?” he said, apparently noticing I was no longer naked. Not only was I ready to go, but I wished I could fast-forward through this whole tacky morning-after scene. “Great,” he continued when I didn’t say anything, “just give me a sec.” He turned his back, dropped the towel, and I watched him get dressed as if from a great distance.