My Boyfriends' Dogs (18 page)

Travis drove Amber, Mom, and me to the theater. A group of kids in cartoon character shirts hopped out of a van and ran into the theater like they were late for their own birthday party. A couple of middle-aged men I knew from Grady's trudged in like they were going to a funeral. It was pretty easy to tell which group was going to which movie.

The lobby was long and narrow, with a table of cartoon-movie souvenirs on one end and packaged candy bars and cookies on the other.

“Bailey, look,” Amber called from the souvenir table.

Mom and I walked over to check it out. “It's a Goofy,” Mom said, fingering the tiny ceramic dog. I'd started collecting Goofy after he'd sat with me on the park bench at Six Flags. I had stuffed animals and statues, some of them picked up in garage sales by my ever-vigilant mother.

“He's adorable.” I examined Goofy's floppy ears to make sure they weren't chipped.

“Bailey!” Mitch called from the theater entrance and waved for me to join him.

“Just a minute!” I called back.

“I need you now.”

Reluctantly, I handed Goofy back to the salesgirl. “Take good care of Goofy. I'll come back for him.”

By the time I made it to Mitch, he was in the middle of an intense conversation with an older man. I couldn't believe it. Mitch looked fantastic in khaki pants, oxford shirt, and a corduroy sports jacket. No socks, but great loafers.

I eased under his arm for a hug. “You look amazing,” I whispered in his ear. “You should have told me it was okay to dress up.”

“Clothes mean nothing,” Mitch said, taking in mine. I was the worst-dressed person there.

I stood by Mitch and greeted the people filtering in, all of them dressed a hundred times better than I was. On the other hand, some of these people had never seen me in anything but a Grady's orange-capped uniform, so I might have looked pretty good.

Mom pulled me aside on her way to our seats. “They're pretty cute together,” she whispered, nodding to Amber and Travis. “Is he a good guy? ”

“So far, so good.” I liked that my mom was so protective of my friend.

Travis came over and shook Mitch's hand and wished him luck. I waited for Mitch to make some comment about the non-existence of luck, but thankfully, he kept his scorn of Lady Luck to himself.

I stuck around and made nice with theatergoers for about as long as I could stand. Then I took Mitch aside. “I'm going to find our seats. Are you coming? ”

“I'll be there,” he answered. He leaned in and whispered, “I have to check on Stan, our pitiful excuse of a film prof.”

“I thought you liked him. You said he'd directed several plays and Sundance documentaries, right? ”

“The man couldn't direct traffic,” Mitch said. “Go ahead. I'll join you later.”

Our seats were in the eighth row, as ordered by Mitch. I stopped and chatted with friends and customers as I made my way to our seats. Outside in the lobby, you could hear kids screaming and laughing.

“Must be the cartoon moviegoers,” Mom observed as I climbed over her. She'd held a seat next to her for me, with a seat next to me for Mitch, who would end up dead center of the eighth row, the perfect viewing perspective, according to my boyfriend.

Mitch didn't take his seat until the last minute.

“I thought you weren't going to make it,” I whispered as he climbed over Travis, Amber, Mom, and me and plopped into his seat.

“Shh-hh,” he said, staring at the blank screen.

Mitch didn't mean to be rude—I knew that. I understood him. He was focused on his creation. Sometimes he had to shut out the world. And me.

Mom reached over and looped her arm through mine, like we'd done a million times at movies.

The theater darkened, and a scene appeared on the screen in black-and-white—a man's boots stuck in mud that went as far as you could see. Then the title flashed on the screen:
EARTH
. And the show began.

The audience watched in silence as earthy scenes replaced more earthy scenes. The camera angled up from the man's feet until his face appeared in shadows. This unnamed man was the main character of
Earth,
and we followed him back and forth through mud, snow, desert, and dust. Three other people had roles in the film. I'd seen the film once before, and I still had no idea who the characters were. They had lines, but they never spoke to each other. It was more like they didn't realize anybody else was there.

Mom yawned. When I glanced at her, she tried to hide it. Somebody in front of us had fallen asleep after the first five minutes. A few people sneaked out the back. But most of the audience paid polite attention.

I wished I understood the film better. From time to time I sneaked peeks at Mitch. The light from the screen fell on his cheek, and his eyes were wide with pride and awe. He looked beautiful, wholly enthralled.

The final scenes of the film were going to be the hardest on the audience. That's when the four characters finally got together and spat out hateful words. The last exchange went like this:

The actors disappeared, and the film credits rolled. Next to me, my mother squirmed. She muttered something to herself. Amber and Travis were whispering. Mitch was on the edge of his seat, watching the credits. I knew he was waiting to see his name roll by. Around us, people were getting up. Leaving.

I stood up. “Hey, everybody! Hang on a minute!”

“It's over,” said a man, who made it sound like he'd just endured oral surgery.

“No! It's not! Look at the screen. Please? ” I begged.

Most people stopped. I knew so many of them. They were my customers. They'd come to this depressing movie because I'd begged them to. I'd told them how much it would mean to my boyfriend and me if they'd show up and fill the theater. They'd
paid
to be here. “Seriously, everybody, thanks for coming. Hang on for one more minute.” I loved them for stopping their mass exit, for looking at the screen, for wiping the frowns off their faces and smiling back at me. “You guys are the greatest!”

“There it is,” Mitch said, his voice excited. “Right after the chief grips.”

And then it came, Mitch's full name—Jonathan Randall Mitchell. And beside his name: “Assistant Grip.”

“That's my boyfriend!” I shouted. I realized that at some point I'd climbed up on my theater seat. I wobbled, and Mom grabbed my legs to steady me.

Mom shouted, “Yippee! Whoo-hoo!”

Amber and Travis started the applause. Then people followed their lead—the apple man from Grady's, a girl in my French class, two guys Amber used to date. They clapped, and they kept clapping until every credit rolled by and the screen went blank.

“You guys rock!” I shouted.

“Now can we go?” begged Mr. Murtaugh, Wanda's father. He'd come because Wanda was holding down Grady's without me.

People trudged out of the theater. Only the remnants of the film class and our little group hung around.

“Congratulations, Mitch,” I said, so grateful that my friends had pulled together for him. “I think they liked it, or appreciated it anyway.”

Mitch frowned at me. “Do you think I care if spectators like my work? ”

But I'd seen it. I'd seen how much he wanted to see the credit, his name on the screen. I'd seen the pride that filled him when people cheered. He
did
care. “So I got all those people to applaud for nothing? ”

Mitch took my chin in his fingers and kissed me. Gazing into my eyes, he said, “Bailey, art is for art's sake.”

Next to me, still in her seat, Mom breathed so heavily that I knew she was about to let it go. “Mitch,” Mom began, her voice tight, controlled, “don't you care about the people who came to support you? ”

“Why should I?” Mitch asked. “Nobody cares, really cares, about anybody.”

Mom muttered something under her breath. The only part I could make out went something like, “Oh yeah? Try missing a car payment and see if anybody cares.”

Mitch didn't know Mom, or he would have stopped right there, quit while he was sort of ahead. “Didn't you understand what was going on in that last scene? ” he asked her.

“The God scene?” Mom scooted up in her seat and faced Mitch, talking in front of me. “What exactly was that about, Mitch? ”

I didn't want them to fight. I wanted them to like each other. “Mom, it was just a film. Mitch didn't write it. He doesn't believe that stuff.”

“But I do,” Mitch insisted. “In twenty-first-century America, God no longer exists any more than—”

Now it was my turn to object. “Mitch, I've heard you go on and on about God and the Big Universe and even hell. So now you're saying you don't believe in God? ”

“Of course not.” He looked surprised, or amused, that I might not understand.

“How can you possibly have a dog and not believe in God? ” I demanded.

Mitch narrowed his eyes at me. “Deep.”

“Deep? ” I repeated.

He nodded slowly. “Deep.”

And right then I realized that Jonathan Mitchell had no idea what he believed. He wasn't deep. He was empty.

I shoved past him and down the empty row of seats. My mind was racing. I'd thought I understood Mitch. I'd thought I was the only one who did. But I had no idea what he believed and what he didn't. And neither did he.

Maybe I hadn't worn blinders in my relationship with Mitch. But I'd sure pulled out the rose-colored glasses.

Mitch caught up with me at the exit to the lobby. So did Amber and Mom. They circled behind me, my defense, my cheering section—something Mitch had never been.

“Bailey, chill,” Mitch pleaded. “It's all cool, babe.”

A calm came over me. “No, Mitch. It's not all cool. I thought it was, but it wasn't. It was my mistake.” I laughed softly, remembering that I'd only met Mitch because I'd mistaken Eve for Dotty. “In fact, you know what? Our whole relationship has been one big case of mistaken identity.”

Poor Mitch looked confused. He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but his hair was in a ponytail and his hand wouldn't fit through the band. “I don't get it. Mistaken identity? ”

I nodded, almost feeling sorry for him. “Yeah, mistaken identity. All this time I thought you were a great guy and an ideal boyfriend. My mistake.” I took his hand and shook it. “No hard feelings.”

Then I walked out, with Amber and Mom, and even Travis, quietly cheering behind me.

We'd passed the souvenir table when I remembered the Goofy, one of Mitch's hated “capitalistic cartoon symbols.” I turned on my heels and ran back. Plunking down twice the cost of the little Goofy figure, I told the girl, “I'll take it. And you can keep the change.” It was worth every penny.

“Bailey? ” Mitch called, scorn thick in his voice, like he knew I couldn't mean this. Like who could possibly want to break up with him?

I turned back for one last time. “And Mitch, since you don't own anything . . . I'm keeping Eve!”

ST. LOUIS—The Present

WHILE I'VE BEEN TALKING about Mitch and Mizzou, my dogs have made themselves totally at home in Louie of St. Louie's. So have I. It strikes me that this
so
isn't how I'd imagined spending tonight, my big prom night. But it's been good to talk, to piece things together like this. My life is almost starting to make sense to me. “If you don't mind, I could sure use a refill of water.”

“I'll get it,” Colt says, setting down Adam and beating Rune up from the table. Colt, Rune, and Louie couldn't have been better listeners. The rain outside has evened to a steady downpour, a comforting clatter on the roof and windows, insulating our little group.

“So did Mitch ever try to get the dog back? ” Rune asks, stroking Eve's head. She's curled up at his feet, her chin resting on his giant boot. I don't think Rune's moved his foot for the last hour.

“Mitch never came back for his Dalmatian,” I explain. “Last year I ran into this girl who was in my summer school French class, and she told me Mitch dropped out of school. I think he got evicted from his bakery apartment before the end of summer for not paying his rent.”

“Guess your mama was right,” Louie says. “Somebody cared after all, just like she said.” He stretches and twists in his chair as if his back is stiff. Or maybe his whole body aches.

I wish I could do something for him. “Louie, would you like me to make you some hot tea? ”

He grins at me, and it feels like we've known each other for years. “Why, I thank you, Bailey. Can't remember the last time a customer offered to wait on me. I'm all right. Don't you worry.”

Rune won't let go of Eve's story yet. “So that loser never even called to see what happened to his dog? ”

“
My
dog, remember. Mitch never owned anything.”

We laugh a little.

“Bet your mama loved having another dog to feed and walk,” Louie muses.

I shrug. “She complained for about a week, but Mom and Adam both loved Eve right from the start.”

“There you go.” Colt sets down a tall glass of ice water in front of me and one for Louie, too.

“Thanks, Colt,” I say, taking a long, deep drink. I close my eyes and think of the bright orange punch bowl I left behind at the prom.

“Earth to Bailey,” Louie says. “Something wrong with that water? ” His voice is teasing.