Must Love Dogs: New Leash on Life (7 page)

Chapter

Nine

My father was girlfriendless for Sunday dinner. This was far more unusual than having a strange woman, or even two or three, open the heavy oak door to welcome me into my family home.

I let myself in with the tarnished brass key I
'd had since junior high and headed straight for the kitchen. I knew I'd find everyone there. Sure enough, my father was hunched over his ancient manual typewriter at the old pine trestle table, two-finger typing on a thick sheet of ivory paper. I kissed him on the top of his head.

"
Sarry, my darlin' daughter, it's good to see your smiling face," he said without looking up. "Can you check a wee bit of spelling for me once I've finished?"

"
Sure, Dad," I said. "I'd love to."

Christine looked up from snipping a stalk of rosemary over the pork roast with the kitchen shears.
"Why does Sarah get to check your spelling? I'm the one who placed three times at the state spelling bee."

Carol looked up from the potatoes she was peeling.
"And she still has the trophies to prove it."

Christine glared at her.
"What's wrong with that? We have a trophy case. It came with the house."

Carol rolled her eyes as she turned to me.
"Where's Jack?"

"
He wanted to spend some time with his dog," I said.

Everybody turned to look at me.

"Don't say it," I said.

"
We wouldn't think of it." My brother Billy shook his head. "But I can't believe he calls you his dog. That's harsh. I mean, his teddy bear maybe—"

"
Or even his honey bunny," Christine said

I was still watching my father.
"Dad, don't you think it might be time to upgrade to a computer? You know, try a little email . . .."

He combed one hand through his long white mane.
"Never. Not as long as a single solitary mailman is still reporting for duty—"

"
But," I said.

He hit another key, back-spaced
, then hit it again, harder. "Trudging through rain and snow and sleet and hail—"

"
But," I said again.

"
Just because the rest of the world has gone to hell in a hand basket, my darling daughter, doesn't mean Billy Hurlihy has to jump on the next train. Jesus, Mary, and what's his name, where in tarnation did that W go?"

I glanced over at the rest of my family, thinking a little bit of backup on the computer issue might be nice.
Michael was busy chopping onion, tears streaming down his cheeks. I could only hope it would be therapeutic.

My niece Siobhan was peeling carrots next to him.
"Uncle Michael, I'm not kidding. Wearing socks with your topsiders is social suicide. You'll never get a date."

We all stopped what we were doing to look at Michael
's feet. A glimpse of white tube socks was clearly visible in the space between the tops of Michael's boat shoes and the hem of his jeans.

"
Who knew," Billy said. He was licking one of the beaters while his wife Moira poured chocolate batter into two round cake pans. "And here I would have thought Mikey's breath would have been his biggest date obstacle."

Michael put his chopping knife down and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. Then he lunged at Billy, hitting him at waist level with one shoulder as he circled his arms around Billy
's thighs and threw him over his back. The half-licked beater went flying and hit a lower cabinet with a chocolate-covered thwack.

Michael danced Billy around in a circle. Billy wiggled free and knocked Michael to the ground. They rolled around the speckled linoleum floor like puppies. Mother Teresa galloped in to the kitchen and started barking. Michael hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her into the wrestling match.

"Don't come whining to me when you throw out your back like you did last time," Moira said as she threw the wayward beater in the kitchen sink. Billy had been married to Moira for ages, but every time I saw them together, my heart still lifted that he'd found her. Moira was as social as Billy was awkward, and from the moment we'd met her, my whole family had welcomed her with open arms. She was one of us.

"
Remember," Carol said as she bent down to wipe the cabinet with a sponge, "when Johnny and Billy were fighting and they broke Mom's favorite gravy boat. And we all helped them put it together with Elmer's glue and then they snuck it back into the china cabinet."

"
And," I said, "Mom didn't say a word—"

"
She just filled it with gravy the next Sunday and put it on the dining room table," Christine said.

Michael let Billy out of a headlock so he could talk.
"And we all had to sit there and pretend we didn't notice the gravy leaking all over the tablecloth."

Johnny walked into the kitchen with a gallon of ice cream and put it in the freezer.
"Yeah, and she kept saying 'Gravy anyone?' And then Dad finally reached over and picked up the gravy boat and the whole thing collapsed."

We all burst out laughing.

Our father looked up from his typewriter. "Your mother," he said, "was the best gosh darn straight man ever. Gracie Allen had nothing on Marjorie Hurlihy."

I was just about to go find a place to hide before anybody n
oticed I didn't have a meal prep assignment, when Carol caught my eye and jerked her head, sister code for
meet me in the hallway
. Since this usually meant she was about to make me do something I didn't want to do, I ignored her. She scraped the potatoes off the cutting board and into the pan. Then she grabbed me by the elbow.

"
Ouch," I said as she pushed me into the hallway. "That pinches."

She dragged me about halfway up the stairs until we reached the step that, after years of childhood trial and error, we
'd all discovered was low enough to spy on the floor below but high enough to keep the conversation private.

"
Do you know," she said as soon as we were seated, "that the
Marshbury Mirror
doesn't even have a personals section in the print edition anymore? They're still taking Dad's money, but they're running his ads in the home improvement section now. As in between the drywall guy and the wallpaper lady."

"
Ha," I said, "that's actually kind of cute."

Carol glared at me.
"Sarah, his freezer is almost empty."

I could feel my jaw
literally drop as this registered. Our father's dating escapades may have been responsible for varying levels of discomfort in his six adult children, but he'd yet to connect with a woman who hadn't contributed at least one casserole to sustain him against the ravages of widowerhood.

Carol nodded.
"Yeah, exactly. When it's empty, you know who's going to have to cook for him.  And let's be fair. I mean, you're the one with the summer off, so I think you need to take the first shift."

"
I do not have the summer off. I—" I stopped, visions of casseroles dancing in my head. Other than one scary concoction of ground beef, raisins, and some other unidentifiable ingredients, they were all pretty good. Tuna noodle casserole sprinkled with crushed cornflakes, American chop suey, chicken tetrazzini, corned beef and cabbage roll-ups.

Kevin had done most of the cooking when we were married. Since my divorce, my father
's date-baked casseroles had not only saved me from cooking for my father, they'd pretty much saved me from cooking. His freezer had become my free 24-hour grocery store. Not only that, but I was sometimes able to pass them off as my own creations. Even my brother Michael was starting to think I was a good cook.

I shook my head to clear the casseroles.
"Why do you think he has a shortage?"

Carol shrugged.
"Well, obviously, his ads are no longer hitting his target demographic. All the single seniors are online now."

"
But what can we do? You saw how he blew me off when I brought it up—we'll never get Dad to give up his typewriter. We can't even get him to plug in the laptop we all chipped in on. What was that? Two Christmases ago?"

Carol leaned forward to make sure nobody was spying on us from below.
"Okay, here's the plan. We kill two birds with one stone and get Dad and Michael dating together."

"
I thought you said Michael wasn't ready to date yet."

"
Sarah, get with the program.
Phoebe
is dating."

"
So that means Michael is ready?"

"
No, it means we want him to get over Phoebe. So we've got to bump him up to pre-ready. And he might as well get all his near misses and rebound relationships over with anyway. That way, when he's really ready, he can move right along."

I buried my head in my hands.
"Oh, please, don't ever make me go back out there again."

"
Sarah, this isn't about you, so get over yourself. While the roast is cooking, I'm going to take Dad aside and convince him he has to do it for Michael. And you'll take Michael aside and tell him he has to do it for Dad."

The thing about my sister Carol was that even though she was way too bossy, she came up with some pretty good plans.
"How long do roasts take to cook again?" I asked, just so she'd know I was contemplating the variables.

She shook her head.
"Clearly you need those casseroles." She pulled herself to a standing position with the worn mahogany banister we all used to slide down as kids. "Focus. And we'll check in with each other later."

Carol disappeared back into the kitchen. I reached over to yank myself to my feet with the banister.

"Aunty Sarah," Lainie yelled. "Can we do a dress rehearsal for you?"

Annie and Lainie came running into the hallway. Maeve and Sydney, their youngest cousins, followed right behind them.

"Sure," I said. I plopped back down on the stairs, getting ready to watch them bust some moves or do a one-act play. Over the years, the wide center hallway with its stairway seating had been the stage for everything from magic shows to hula-hoop exhibitions.

My nieces lined up, side-by-side, oldest to youngest, and began to sing.

If I were a butterfly

And you were a ladybug

Would you marry me
anyway

And have
butterbug babies

If I crashed and fell

On all the little children

Heading straight for hell

Would you put me back together
again

So we could fly to heaven.

If I were a butterfly

And you were a ladybug

Would you marry me
anyway

And have
butterbug babies

Chapter

Ten

I just sat there for a while after my nieces left to go sing my butterfly humiliation around some more. Dozens of family photographs surrounded me like a group hug. Mismatched frames stretched along both sides of the staircase all the way up to the second floor.

My eyes went, as they always did first, to my parents
' sepia wedding photo. A thin and dapper version of my tuxedoed father that was both so him and so not him all at the same time. My mother in her wedding gown with the impossibly elaborate lace bodice, the look in her eyes saying how did I get lucky enough to marry this handsome guy. Her cat's eye glasses with little rhinestones that I would give anything to get my hands on now and which were just flashy enough to make me wonder if I'd ever really known her.

My grandparents
' wedding photos were up on the wall, too, as well as my brothers' and sisters'. I'd taken down Kevin's and my wedding picture the day our divorce had become final in a ceremony that involved my father's biggest hammer and the sound of breaking glass while my family cheered me on. There were so many photos that you might not notice the empty space unless you knew where to look. I kept meaning to bring another picture over to take its place, but somehow I never seemed to get around to it.

Michael came into the hallway before I even had to track him down.
"That old coot. Do you believe he can sing Mom's praises at the same time he's typing out a personal ad?"

I sighed.
"Yeah, sometimes I feel that way, too, at least a little bit, but she's gone, Michael. What's he supposed to do, bring flowers to her grave once a week and mope around the other six days?"

Michael shrugged.
"I don't think I could do it, that's all."

"
You'll get there. Give it time." I didn't have the heart to tell him that with Carol on my back,
time
meant about five minutes.

I followed his eyes to his wedding picture, taken on the front steps of the church in Savannah where Phoebe grew up and where they were married.
Michael with a fresh haircut and shiny brown eyes, dapper in his tux. Phoebe in a strapless white dress looking blond and fragile and like someone who didn't quite belong to this dark-haired family with their big smiles and shiny brown eyes, like the old
Sesame Street
game about which of these things is not like the other.

I had a sudden urge to go get Michael the hammer, but I knew he wasn
't ready yet.

He ran one hand through his scraggly hair.

"Hey," I said. "Let's sneak out and get you a quick haircut while the roast is in the oven."

He sighed a long sigh, like a simple haircut might be beyond him.
"Yeah, okay. Let me just tell Annie and Lainie that I'll be right back. It could take me a minute. They've got some song they want me to listen to."

"
Great," I said.

Michael drove, his Toyota 4Runner starting
right up the way it always did, even though it had passed the hundred thousand mile mark and then some. I adjusted the beach towel he kept draped over the cracked vinyl of the passenger seat. Mother Teresa poked her head between our shoulders. I reached for a tissue to wipe some drool dribbling from the corner of her mouth.

We headed in the direction of the nearest walk-in sports cut place. If I were a better sister, I probably would have thought ahead and called someone to get a referral to a cutting edge salon and then made an actual appointment, but at this point even a buzz cut would be a step up for my brother.

"You know," Michael said, "if Phoebe wanted me to drive a nicer car, she should have said something. I thought we'd agreed that it made more sense to stay on track with the girls' college fund."

"
Listen," I said. "We've been over this a dozen times already. It's not about the car. We have no idea who this guy is or if they're even dating. He could be a client. He could be gay."

"
Right," Michael said. "Or he could be banging my wife."

On the one hand, I wanted to make Michael feel better. On the other hand, I wanted him to get over Phoebe. There didn
't seem to be a lot of overlap, so I had a tendency to bounce back and forth between the two, trying to find a balance.

I nodded carefully.
"Or they could be screwing around together. When is your next session with the marriage counselor?"

"
Tuesday. But Phoebe will probably cancel again." He shook his head. "She'd better not. It's our last session before she takes the girls to Savannah to visit her parents."

"
Don't anticipate," I said. "Maybe she just needs some time."

"
Time." Michael stopped at a stop sign. He waved one car ahead of us and then another. Maybe he was trying to build up some good karma.

Finally, we had the intersection to ourselves. Instead of conti
nuing in the direction of a potential haircut, Michael put his foot on the gas pedal and made a U-turn.

"
Don't do it," I said.

He ignored me.

"Michael," I said.

He ignored me some more. We followed the tree-lined streets toward the west end of town. I knew exactly where we were going. Since we
'd run into Phoebe and Uncle Pete at the grocery store, this was at least the third drive-by Michael had taken me on. I could only imagine how many trips he'd made without me.

"
It's still light out," I said. "She'll spot you right away."

He didn
't say anything.

"
If we don't hurry, the sports cut place will be closed by the time we get there. Come on, Michael, haircut first. That way if Phoebe calls the cops on you, at least you won't look like a criminal in your mug shot."

He leaned forward over the steering wheel and pushed down harder on the gas pedal.

I put on my perky teacher voice. "How about this? We get you a haircut, then we go back and have a nice yummy dinner, then we leave the girls with Dad for a little while. Or we could even ask Dad to drive them back to my house and meet us there. And then, when it's good and dark, you and I can drive by as many times as you want, if you think it will make you feel better. But I don't think it will, Mikey."

Mother Teresa licked my cheek.

I reached back to give her a pat on the head. "Fine, you can come with us, too, girl. But, I have to tell you both I don't think this is a very productive way to spend our time."

Michael took a left, and then slowed to take a quick right onto his street. I held my breath, hoping we wouldn
't find Phoebe standing in the front yard, making out with Uncle Pete.

The BMW was in the driveway, parked directly behind Pho
ebe's minivan, so close their bumpers were practically touching.

Mother Teresa saw them first. She let out a big St. Bernard bark.

"Shhhh," I hissed. I hunched down in my seat and closed my eyes, the way a preschool student might try to make herself invisible. "Come on, Michael, let's get out of here."

My brother ignored me and slowed to a crawl. I opened my eyes. Phoebe and Uncle Pete were standing in the front yard, shoulders practically touching. In front of them was a hedge of bridal wreath
spirea whose flowers had mostly gone by, leaving only the occasional pop of white against spent brown blooms. Uncle Pete was holding big orange-handled clippers and Phoebe was gesturing with one hand to show him how low he should cut the hedge. She was also wearing a really short white skirt with turquoise espadrilles, and her legs appeared to have been spray tanned. 

They were so focused on the hedge that I
'm not sure either of them would have noticed us if Michael hadn't pulled into the driveway.

"
Michael," I screamed as the front bumper of his 4Runner came way too close to the back bumper of the Z4. I covered my ears and waited for the crunch of impact. It never came. When we stopped moving, several inches of Michael's bumper hovered over Uncle Pete's, the way a dog puts his head on top of another dog's to show who's the alpha.

Mother Teresa buried her head in my neck.

Michael jammed the car into park and unbuckled his seatbelt.

"
Don't you dare open that car door," I said, like that was going to work.

Michael jumped out.

"Get your hands off my clippers," he yelled.

Mother Teresa made a sound like a cross between a yawn and a sigh.

"I know, I know," I whispered. "Definitely not his best line."

I tried to decide whether my smartest move was to hide out in the car or jump into the fray. On the one hand, hiding out would be my preferred option. But on the other hand, the car door was wide open, so it really wasn
't much of a choice.

My phone rang. I dug it out of my purse and checked the di
splay. John.

I tapped the Answer button.
"Hey," I whispered. "Can I call you back in about ten minutes?"

"
Sure," he said.

I pushed the End button and put my cell back in my purse.
"Okay, we're going in." I clicked open my door and slid out of the car. I opened the back door and reached for Mother Teresa's leash.

She almost bowled me over on her way out. She lumbered across her former front yard, dragging me with her. She stopped at the base of the
spirea hedge for a long, luxurious pee right next to Uncle Pete's left foot.

"
Good girl," I said.

"
Michael," Phoebe was saying, "it's a hedge." Mother Teresa walked over and leaned into Phoebe's thigh. Phoebe reached down and patted her head.

"
It's
my
hedge," Michael said. "I planted it and if it needs to be cut,
I'll
cut it and not this loser."

"
Or we could go get a haircut," I said.

"
It was here when we bought the house," Phoebe said.

Phoebe and Michael stared at each other.

"Cut the hedge, Peter," Phoebe said.

Mother Teresa slumped to the grass and buried her nose in her paws.

"You let this idiot touch my hedge," Michael said without taking his eyes off Phoebe, "and I won't give you permission to take the girls to Savannah."

Phoebe grabbed the clippers and hacked a big hunk right out of the center of the hedge. She stabbed the points of the clippers into the ground about an inch away from Michael
's toes.

"
Are you happy now?" she screamed as she ran for the house.