Stepdog

by Nicole Galland

  “Hello,” she said, offering her hand to Alto. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Sara, Rory’s wife.”

  “And Cody’s owner. It’s great to meet you. You have a great dog!”

  Sara beamed her satisfaction, like a laser, right into my face, rekindling my hangover headache. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Alto,” said Alto. “Yeah, I know Rory from the arboretum, I’m there most days when he takes Cody for a walk. She’s such a sweet dog.”

  These were the most syllables I’d ever heard Alto string together at once without the aid of a cigarette. “How’s things, Alto?” I asked. I had no idea what else to ask, since it felt like whatever we talked about at the arboretum should stay at the arboretum. Not that we talked about anything per se at the arboretum.

  A slightly nervous nod from Alto. “Okay. They’re good. Yeah. How are you?”

  Sara and I glanced at each other. She nodded slightly; we both smiled, amnesty accorded. “We’re great,” I said to Alto. “We’re celebrating.”

  “Rory,” called out a voice from the counter.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Alto offered. “Want anything in it?”

  “Thanks, mate, no, just as it is.”

  We watched as Alto retrieved and returned with our drinks, and set them on the tabletop before us. “So, what are you celebrating?”

  “A rite of passage, Alto,” I said, with a grin. “I just got my green card!” I grabbed Sara’s hand. “This beautiful woman made it possible.”

  Alto looked confused. “You mean you’ve been, like, illegal?”

  “He had a visa,” Sara said quickly. “An arts visa. But he couldn’t join the Screen Actors Guild or anything, so we got married so he could do that.”

  Alto gave me a startled expression. “You’re an actor? I mean, I know you did, like, Christmas Carol, but I mean—an actor-actor.”

  “Among other things,” I said with a dismissive gesture. “Mostly I walk my wife’s dog.”

  Alto nodded, putting the pieces together, and turned admiringly to Sara. “So, wow, you married him just so he could get a green card?”

  “And because she was blown away by how wildly in love with her I was,” I said, pulling Sara’s wrist to my lips and kissing it. She blushed and grinned, which was, as always, adorable.

  “We’d been dating a week when we got married,” Sara said in a confessional tone.

  “That’s so romantic,” Alto said, suddenly almost choked up. “And now you’re legal or documented or whatever’s the correct term?”

  “Yep,” I grinned.

  “Almost,” Sara corrected. “It’s a conditional card. In two years we have to prove that we’re still a couple, and then he gets the permanent card. As long as he hasn’t broken the law or anything. So—” She grinned at me, teasing. “He’s still got plenty of time to get in trouble.”

  “Wow,” said Alto, nodding a little. “Well, congratulations. Funny how we all see each other in the park and never think about, you know, our lives outside the park.”

  “Tell me about it! You have a secret identity as a barista,” I said. “You’ve been holding out on me, don’t you know I need my espressos?”

  Alto looked flustered.

  “He’s joking,” Sara said reassuringly. Alto looked reassured. Sara’s good that way.

  “I’m joking,” I said heartily. “Bay State Caffeine is no place to get a decent espresso.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. I impulsively kissed Sara on the cheek. She kissed me back. The world was my oyster!

  “So . . . Are you taking the T back to JP?” asked Alto, and added, when I looked confused, “Jamaica Plain.”

  “Maybe. What time is it?” Sara asked. In my hungover fog, I’d left my watch at home, so I reached into my raincoat pocket for my phone to check the time. It was turned off. I powered it back up. And remembered:

  “. . . Dougie’s voice mail,” I said. I glanced up at Alto. “My agent left me a message,” I said, loving the sound of that, because now it was true. The phone beeped to alert me of the message. I bit my lip excitedly, looking back and forth between them. Sara tensed, with a nervous smile.

  “Is it important?” asked Alto.

  “Could be,” I said, trying to sound breezy, as if I got important voice mails all the time. “Could be life-changing.” I winked at Alto as if life-changing voice mails were a matter of course. Alto looked stupefied. Then I tapped in my password, the four-note tune chiming like a TV network jingle.

  “You have one new message,” my phone told me in an excruciatingly slow female voice. “First message, received at ten fifty-eight A.M.” Impulsively, I pressed the speaker button and held the phone out between the three of us. Alto leaned in, thrilled to be part of the crew. He never smiled like this back at the park. I’d have to work on that, I decided.

  “Rory!” cheered Dougie’s voice. “Call me! Make sure you’re sitting down. With a big bottle of champagne.”

  Sara and I looked at each other, eyes wide, mouths O-ing. I felt shivers all over my body. I could see in my peripheral vision Alto glancing back and forth excitedly between us.

  “Good news, then?” Alto asked.

  “. . . I think so,” I said, nearly hyperventilating. I burst into nervous laughter.

  “Rory!” Sara said quietly, eyes shining. It was almost a whine or a whimper—actually, she reminded me a bit of Cody. Maybe Sara was about to slide off the chair into tarty-dog pose. “Oh my God, Rory!” And then she was laughing nervously, too.

  “Congrats,” Alto said. “Whatever it is.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Not sure, but I think I maybe might have got a television series. Pilot, anyhow.” And then I just kept grinning stupidly because I was in Bay State Caffeine and there was no room to dance properly.

  Alto’s jaw dropped. “Wow! Wow. Rory, that’s awesome, wow, congratulations!”

  “Thanks, man,” I said. I suddenly stood up and hugged Alto, which would have been inconceivable in the arboretum. Alto hugged me back—equally inconceivable.

  “You’ve been on a roll,” said Alto, admiringly. “When I first met you, remember? You’d just gotten married, and now already you have a green card, and an amazing job. Like, it’s all just magically coming together for you.”

  “I know!” I crowed. “And it’s all thanks to this fantastic woman!” I threw my arms around Sara’s shoulder in an exuberant bear hug and kissed the top of her head. She laughed and reached up to stroke my cheek.

  “Congrats,” said Alto. There was the tiniest wistfulness in Alto’s voice—not self-pity, but a sort of hopeful envy. It caught me up short. I wouldn’t have considered our situations parallel at all, but the moment I heard that tone in Alto’s voice, I realized that he did. Which made sense, I s’pose. Having an unconventional identity in conventional society, in any sense, is a wee bit like being at sea: you’re always looking for lighthouse beacons. Maybe, in the absence of more immediate inspiration, I was suddenly his, same as that.

  I released Sara, and tapped Alto’s elbow. “I spent years trying to pass under the radar, mate. I know about looking over my shoulder, and not feeling comfortable in my own shoes.” It was the first time I’d ever hinted acknowledging anything not-conventional about Alto. “Don’t let the bastards get you down. You’re grand. You’ll be grand.”

  Alto’s brown eyes welled up. He nodded slightly. “Thanks, Rory,” he said. He looked at Sara. “He’s very lucky—and so are you.”

  She looked slightly choked up, too. “I know,” she said. “And now he even has work.” We grinned at each other and started giggling ridiculously. Nothing on earth like the sound of Sara’s laugh.

  Chapter 11

  When we got home, Cody performed her many “anticlockwise spins of joy” and smacked us with her “happy tail” and of course showed us her “tarty-dog belly.” When she had exhausted all possible expressions of gratitude for not being permanently abandoned, I called Dougie while Sara went into the bedroom with
her laptop to plan an impromptu weekend getaway.

  The first mad thing about calling Dougie—which I had never done, he always called me—was that the call was picked up not by Dougie but by an assistant, who sounded about twelve. He put me on hold. After the longest fifteen seconds of my life, he came back on the line to somberly inform me: “I have Dougie Martin for you.”

  I wanted to say, Of course you do, that’s why I called, but that seemed unprofessional, so I settled for, “Thank you.”

  “Rory! You’re the man!”

  Suddenly I was almost breathless. “I don’t even . . . I’m . . . What does that mean? Exactly?”

  “It means they want you!”

  What?! I made spastic-sounding happy noises, and Dougie laughed, and waited for me to calm down, then continued.

  “They got the green light for the pilot, that’s definitely happening, and they’ve got a shooting script. They say they’re shooting late May. So you’ve got two and a half months to get out here.”

  “Get out . . . there?”

  “There’s been a change, they’re shooting it in L.A. But that’s great because L.A. is the place you want to be anyhow.”

  I was dizzy, had to take a breath before I could speak. Jesus, what would Sara say? How would she feel about moving across the continent? “And after the pilot?” I asked. “They decide if they want to keep me or not?”

  “No, you’re attached if they run with it, that’s what that monster contract was all about. But now there’s one potential hitch . . .”

  I didn’t like the silence he trailed off to.

  “We sort of BS’d them about your immigration status, so I really need you to get that green card pronto.”

  I burst out laughing. “I just got it this morning. Can you believe the timing?”

  “No shit, really?” The relief in his voice was so obvious I could almost smell it. He must have really stretched his neck for me with their legal folks. “Congrats! That’s fantastic, Rory, my God, I know how long you’ve been after that.”

  “Thanks,” I said “I couldn’t have done it without—”

  “So that means we can move on the SAG status,” said Dougie, marching on. “There’s a bunch of moving parts here, but it’s all really orderly. There won’t be any curve balls.”

  “The move to L.A. is a bit of a curve ball.”

  “Let me talk to them, they’ll pay for that. Let’s talk next week and deal with the practical stuff. Just wanted you to have the good news now so you could celebrate over the weekend.”

  “Thanks, mate,” I said. “Wow. And, Dougie, thank you for believing in me and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said grandly. “Save it for the wrap party. Love you, man, talk to you next week.”

  I sat on the couch staring at the coffee table. Cody came over to me and firmly planted her chin on my knee, looking up at me adoringly, tail wagging slowly. Just then, Sara came back into the room, eyebrows raised, face beaming hopefully.

  I tried to look cool, just leaned back on the couch and nodded a little. Sara opened her arms wide, shouted with joyful laughter, and nearly threw herself at me.

  LENA TOOK CODY for the weekend. Sara and I went away to a B&B in the Berkshires, and hardly got out of bed. Much as I’d love to brag about that, I’m a gentleman, so I’ll just resume with my return to earth on Monday morning. That’s where the second part of this story begins. Although I was too clueless to realize that until months later.

  Chapter 12

  Monday morning, I saw Sara off to work as usual, had an espresso and did my crossword puzzle, and then back to the apartment to take Cody for a walk. By that time, Little Miss Organizational Skill Set had already arranged with Lena to have a celebratory lunch for us at the museum later in the week.

  I was over the moon and no question, but I can’t describe it because . . . it is just hard to describe. I was actually almost in a state of shock.

  Anyhow, knowing this lunch was to be held, and feeling (to be honest) a mix of delight and dread at being scrutinized by so many Initialed People, I was truly looking forward to our walk in the arboretum, just me and the dog and the unassuming folks I knew in passing there.

  I would never have brought up either the green card or the TV pilot—despite my chatty ways, I am (like most of the Irish race) genetically shy, and bursting out with the news . . . that was never going to happen.

  But Alto (although shy) wasn’t Irish, and he wasn’t me, and he saw no need to keep it a secret. So by the time the dog and I came bounding up Peters Hill in the raw, damp, early-March air, Cody dashing ahead to see if Marie’s kids were there (their hands were usually good for a few molecules of junk food) . . .

  . . . I had a little cheering section waiting for me. Literally. Alto, Jay, Marie, her little boys, and a few other faces I knew vaguely, all gave me an actual ovation as I appeared over the rise. Jay nearly always sat, but he rose to his feet now, his Samuel Beckett–esque eyes pouring into me with knowing approval, as if he sensed my insecurities and had the deepest (if fatalistic) compassion for them.

  “Rory O’Connor,” he said. “What a journey this life is giving you. Heartiest congratulations, my friend.”

  Cody, to demonstrate she agreed with him, first leapt on him and then collapsed straight at his feet on the cold, damp grass in a tarty-dog pose.

  “It’s so exciting, almighty God,” said Marie, “Is it here in Boston? Hollywood loves Boston.”

  “Actually, Los Angeles, it turns out,” I said, almost dreading the sound of it. Sara had been a little thrown by that development, but then—so like Sara—she was game to go on out.

  “Goodness,” said Jay, eyebrows raised, while little Nick asked, “Can I watch your TV show, Rory?”

  That question made it feel more concrete than anything so far.

  “. . . Sure, I suppose, if your mum says it’s okay.”

  “What time will it be on?” he asked, concerned. “I can’t watch TV after seven.”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” I smiled, tickled, thinking: It will be on. It will be on at some time. What an amazing thing!

  I laughed a little, looking down, nervous. I wanted to deck Alto for telling them, but I wanted to hug him, too. He looked chuffed for being the one to deliver the news; it gave him insider status about something pretty cool, and he was preening a little. I far preferred that to the skulking little moper I had first met on this hilltop several months ago. So, as the Yanks like to say, it was all good.

  “I believe,” said Jay, “that we should have an official celebration. For everyone. If I am not mistaken, this young gentleman”—meaning Marie’s son Nick—“has a birthday coming up.”

  “I am not a genman,” said Nick defiantly, as if Jay were teasing him. “I am a boy.”

  “A boy who is one year older soon, aren’t you?” said Jay, like a pleased pedagogue. “Would you like a party?”

  Nick’s eyes glowed and he glanced at his mother, his backside wiggling not unlike Cody’s when she greeted us each morning. “Mommy?” he asked hopefully, grinning up at her so intensely his eyes were shut.

  “That’s very nice of Mr. Jay, isn’t it, Nick?” said Marie. To Jay, smiling in amazement: “I can’t believe you know his birthday!”

  Jay shrugged. “I have a knack for those kinds of details. Last year around this time, I think it was even my first visit to the arboretum, I’d just moved to the neighborhood, and you two were having an argument about his party. It is hard to forget a three-year-old demanding chocolate fondue for his birthday dinner.”

  Marie burst out laughing as Nick said, pleased with himself for his originality, “Hey, guess what! I want chocolate fondue for my birthday dinner!”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, mister. How about a cake?” said his mother.

  “Okay,” Nick said, upon reflection.

  “Really, though, let’s have a little party,” said Jay. “I live just there.” He pointed vaguely toward one of the triple-deckers on the R
oslindale side of the hill, the back decks of their upper floors gazing at us through the leafless trees. “I can bring hot spiced cider right over here in a thermos or two.”

  “I’ll make a cake,” said Marie.

  “Chocolate,” said Nick. “Dark chocolate.”

  “Yes, bossy-man,” said his mother.

  “As chocolate as chocolate fondue.”

  “A gentleman who knows what he wants,” said Jay approvingly.

  “I told you,” Nick scolded, “I’m not a genman, I’m a boy.”

  “I’m not so good at cooking,” said Alto, awkward but eager (eager in a repressed sort of way). “But I can bring, like, paper plates and utensils and cups from work.”

  “Ach, thievery,” I said approvingly.

  “Very useful, and practical,” said Jay.

  “What can I bring?” I asked. Garam-Masala Man did not get called upon to serve up many winter picnics.

  “You are the guest of honor,” declared Jay. “You and Nick. You two don’t have to bring anything. Now, what’s a good day?”

  Wednesday was established. I realized I was looking forward to this gathering considerably more than the MFA luncheon on Thursday that Lena was arranging.

  I LOVE BIRTHDAYS and I did not want to show up empty-handed to a four-year-old’s. So I went to the toy store on Centre Street and got Nick some cheap pirate gear: hat, eye patch, and of course, shiny plastic cutlass. I modeled it at home for Sara the night before, explaining the context. She responded so well to the look that I went back to get another set for myself.

  Late Wednesday morning, we all converged around the top of Peters Hill. It wasn’t windy—in fact, it was strangely mild, high forties, nearly sunny—but except for some early bulbs pushing up here and there, it really wasn’t springlike yet at all. In Ireland, this weather could nearly be accounted summer, but in America, even in Boston, it was a raw day for a party, and it seemed mildly daft. I mean that in the best way, though, in that all of us would surely look back at our clumsy attempt and feel fond of one another that we were all in it together.