Must Love Dogs: (Book 1)

by Claire Cook

  A gorgeous Newfoundland trudged over to us, black fur glistening, tail wagging. After a few minutes of indecisiveness, Mother Teresa followed him off to the big red plastic tunnel. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," I whispered. I laughed a little too loudly.

  So this is desperate, I thought. Sitting alone, absolutely alone, on a park bench, making crude comments to a dog that doesn't even belong to you. I watched as a nice-looking guy leaned over to say something to the Newfie. I waited and, sure enough, an even nicer-looking woman came around the corner to take his hand.

  . . . . .

  "Is this George?"

  "Who's calling, please?"

  "Um, this is Sarah. You called me last night."

  "Umm-hmm."

  "Listen, George. I'm really sorry about last night. The truth is, I hardly ever have company. I live alone, at least I have since my divorce, but last night my father's girlfriend showed up and wouldn't leave, and then some other, uh, people. And, anyway, you must have a completely inaccurate picture of me at this point." I waited to see if he was still on the line. "George?"

  "Umm-hmm."

  "So, how old are your kids? I love kids."

  "You know, there are a lot of crazy people out there, and I'd like to think you're not one of them, but in the meantime, let's not talk about my kids, okay?"

  . . . . .

  "All right, I'll let you wear the boa, but you have to promise me you're not going to eat it. Okay?" I wrapped Dolly's original pink feather boa twice around Mother Teresa's neck, and tucked the ends out of the way so she wouldn't be tempted. "Okay, now we have to find something for me." I located the silver mules in my closet, slipped them on. Looked for something to go with them. Settled for a long knitted scarf, light gray with white snowflakes. "I know I'm pushing the season, but the colors are good together." The scarf must have been a wool blend, because it felt scratchy where it touched my skin. I hiked the neck of my cotton T-shirt up a little higher.

  I lit some candles, even though it wasn't quite dark yet. Lay on my back on the bed, closed my eyes and reached over to start the tape. Had to reopen my eyes to find the right button. "Okay, this is it," I said to Mother Teresa. "Let's pick a winner."

  Seven thirty-three a.m. October 18. Almost five weeks ago. Good morning. My name is Lennie. I'm a little nervous on this . . . because you're only the sixth ad I've answered. The other five did not . . . there was no . . . chemistry . . . it didn't pan out . . . obviously. Consequently, if you'd like to give me a call, I'd appreciate hearing from you. I've been a little depressed lately. It would be nice to have someone to talk to. The number is 617-555-1812. Many thanks.

  I scratched Mother Teresa's current favorite place, just above her nose. "I guess I should be a better person, but I barely have enough energy for my own depression."

  Ten-forty-one p.m. October 17. Hi, there, my name is Ben. I'm in my mid-forties, totally toned, very, very fit, handsome, blue eyes, a good complexion, five-foot-seven, about a hundred and ninety pounds, give or take. I'm very captivated by dogs. I'm also into wines, into growing herbs. I make my own sprouts, too. Mostly alfalfa. I'm professional, successful, and I think you'd really like me. So, give me a call. 978-555-9658. Mother Teresa sighed, burped loudly. "You're absolutely right," I agreed. "We are not, either of us, that desperate."

  I pushed the OFF button. Clasped my hands behind my head, and flopped back down to my pillow. Mother Teresa leaned over and lapped my face, sighed again, then tucked her nose between her paws on the other pillow.

  I forced myself to a seated position, picked up the phone again. I dialed Bob's number. I imagined laughing with him about how he'd forgotten to call me. What is it about you guys, I might say as if I found it amusing, that whenever you say you'll call, you never do? Austin answered on the third ring. I hesitated. Should I ask for his dad? Most likely, he'd tell the whole class on Monday.

  "Who is it, Austin?" I heard a female voice say in the background. "Hello?" the voice said into the receiver. I didn't say a word. By the second hello, I was sure it was June. I hung up quietly.

  I flopped back down on the bed, synchronized my breathing with Mother Teresa's. We stayed like that for a while, one big gulp of air for me to every four of hers. Twenty-four hours ago I had so much hope, and now I was so discouraged. It certainly hadn't taken me very long to end up back at square one. Maybe it was my fault for wanting things too much. "My whole life," I said to Mother Teresa, "my family has always said don't get your hopes up or you'll jinx everything. I really hate it when they're right."

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  I almost forgot about my Monday morning before-school meeting with Kate Stone. By the time I remembered, three sips into a cup of coffee, it was too late for breakfast. My stomach rumbled as I sat in Kate Stone's office watching her nibble on minuscule pieces of a blueberry muffin she broke off one by one, between sentences. I concentrated, with great difficulty, on what she was saying.

  "Let me summarize. You'll keep Irish Step Dance. Reinstate Swing Dance if the teacher gets the final doctor's okay in time. And you'll add Indoor Games Potpourri. And Never Too Young to Cook." She wiped her hands on a paper napkin, picked up a red marker, wrote "Winter Offerings" at the top of a fresh sheet of the pad she used for staff meetings. "We'll open this up at today's meeting to see if there are any takers. Otherwise, I'll leave you to your own devices to come up with instructors. Can do?"

  "Can do," I said.

  On the way to my classroom, I poked my head into Lorna's room. "Do you have any food?" I asked. She opened her pocketbook, threw me a Snickers bar.

  "Bless you," I said, unwrapping it and biting off at least a third of it.

  "Oh, I got the message you called. Several days later, that is, when Mattress Man remembered. I think he thinks that if he doesn't give me my messages, I'll stay home or something." She smiled as if she'd just said something wonderful.

  "Do you really think he does that?"

  "Probably."

  "Doesn't that piss you off?"

  "Why?" She folded her hands together and sighed dramatically. "He loves me, he really loves me." Sally Field couldn't have said it better. She picked up her calendar from her desk. "Okay, let's pick a date right now before we get too busy with the holidays."

  . . . . .

  "I'd appreciate it, Ms. Hurlihy," said Patrice Greene, "if you'd spend some time with the children reinforcing proper respect for one's clothing." Molly's headband was among the missing, and Mrs. Greene had probably paid big bucks for it. "It's confusing for Molly to receive one message at home and a contradictory one at school."

  I didn't want to get Molly in trouble by telling her mother that each morning Molly started flinging her accessories around the classroom the moment Mom was out of sight. I wanted to tell Mrs. Greene that Molly was a joyful, carefree child and hadn't she noticed she was cramping her style with all that stuff? I ventured a careful step into these waters: "I think she just likes to be comfortable."

  Patrice Greene eyed my outfit, a pants and jacket set that had begun the day as unstructured, but was by now downright wrinkly. I loved its bagginess and deep cinnamon color. "Well, wouldn't we all," she said, shrugging her shoulders with the impossibility of making someone who wore lightweight cotton in late fall grasp her standards.

  "Hey, Teach, how's things?" I jumped at Bob Connor's voice, composed myself quickly, checked to see if I'd been dismissed by Mrs. Greene. I had. She was attempting to straighten out Molly's tights. They had sagged and twisted so that the crotch was centered just above her right kneecap. Good luck, I thought.

  "Austin, your dad's here," I called, even though Austin, wearing a big grin just like his father's, was already heading in our direction. I started to walk away, hoping I looked as if I had something else to do.

  "So, Sarah, I hear Dolly's cooking your Thanksgiving dinner," Bob said.

  "What?"

  "I helped her carry the turkey to her car last night. Big sucker. Thirty-two pound
s, I think she said."

  Why was I always the last to know anything? We couldn't possibly be having Thanksgiving dinner in Dolly's trailer, could we? I wondered if Bob knew, but I certainly wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking. "What makes you think I'm spending Thanksgiving with my family?"

  "You're not?"

  I hesitated. "No."

  "Where are you going, then?"

  I was aware of a certain tightness working its way out from my neck to my shoulders. "I can't imagine why that would be any concern of yours." June floated over to us, stopped too close to Bob, smiled that spaced-out smile of hers.

  "June Bug," Bob said. "How's it going?"

  . . . . .

  "Nice job, Siobhan. I know I keep saying that, but you really are a good teacher. And the kids really do love you. And now I really will shut up." I leaned my head back against the passenger seat of my Civic. Siobhan drove just barely over the speed limit. She hadn't even pulled over to smoke a cigarette since the first time. What a great kid she was.

  Siobhan looked straight ahead. Her hands were on the wheel at ten and four o'clock. "Aunt Sarah, can I move in with you?"

  "Oh, Vonny." I hadn't called her Vonny since she was about four. "Honey. Siobhan. Your parents would never let you. They'd miss you too much."

  "Yeah, right. I asked my mother last night."

  "What'd she say?"

  "The exact quote is 'There's the door.'"

  "Her feelings were just hurt. She didn't really mean it." At least I hoped Carol didn't mean it. As much as I loved Siobhan, I was having a hard enough time trying to find a life without having to deal with a sixteen-year-old roommate. "You know, the holidays always make everyone more emotional. Just try to get through them and then things will calm down. Teenagers aren't supposed to get along with their parents."

  "Whatever." Siobhan pulled into her driveway, put my Civic into park, and started to cry.

  I put my arms around her and she leaned her head against my shoulder. "It'll be okay," I said, "but if it gets worse, call me right away."

  . . . . .

  When Carol called, I was sure it was to talk about Siobhan. She didn't even mention her though, so neither did I. I was too busy trying to grasp what she was saying instead. "What? You're kidding. That's ridiculous."

  "The bottom line is, Sarah, Dad's never going to change. So if we can cover for him until he can let Dolly down gently, what's the harm?"

  "Why can't he get rid of her before Thanksgiving?"

  "Well, he tried, but she said she'd already bought the turkey."

  Oddly, I knew this to be true. "Okay, let me get it straight. We're supposed to keep Dolly busy at our house while Dad's having an early dinner with another woman?"

  "What, you'd rather have Thanksgiving dinner in Dolly's trailer?"

  "Carol, why are you pretending those are the only two choices? Why can't we tell Dad to grow up? Why can't we make plans of our own?" I pictured Dolly in our kitchen, touching Mom's dishes. Carol, Christine, Billy, Michael and Johnny all half of a couple, flanked by kids. Even Dolly would be part of a matched set once my father finally showed up. I was speeding into another holiday season, alone, and I wanted to get off the train. "Count me out this year, Carol. I'm going to find something else to do."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like what?"

  . . . . .

  The only thing I'd done with the Sunday paper so far this week was move it from the driveway to the coffee table. I had just finished a quesadilla I'd managed to make for dinner—a major step forward in the culinary department. I took the last sip of wine and shoved the plate and glass down to the end of the coffee table so I could open the paper.

  I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for, but I started with the travel section because I found it first. The rates to Europe were good. Maybe I could leave Wednesday after school, come back Sunday night. I'd sit at a sidewalk cafe in Paris sipping something French, less lonely somehow because I couldn't understand what anyone was talking about.

  A waiter would approach, not a career waiter, but a waiter on his way to becoming someone famous. Maybe he'd made a couple of independent films and was saving his tips to go to America for his big break. Finding me would be a great connection. The waiter was vaguely dark-eyed and handsome. His English was very good. He'd have to be younger, because if he was still hoping for his big break at my age, he would be fairly pathetic.

  Who was I kidding? I didn't even have a passport. How could I possibly go to Paris in two days? I flipped the pages, ended up once again at the personals. SJF wanted for serious relationship or as sperm donor recipient by healthy SJM. Would like family relationship but in today's world must be practical. Your sexual orientation not an issue if you're a good parent, healthy and raise the child Jewish. Apparently, I wasn't the only one in the world who couldn't figure out what I wanted. Hmm . . . do I want a serious relationship or do I want to be a sperm donor?

  I kept flipping until I came to the South of Boston community events. "Nightlife" (not much). "Museums." "Lectures and Readings." Tucked under "Special Events," I found it.

  Volunteers wanted to serve Thanksgiving dinner to Cape Cod residents in need. First Parish Church, Route 3 to Route 28S, Falmouth. Noon to four.

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  Flecks of snow sprinkled the windshield as I headed toward the Cape. I'd checked when I called, and First Parish was a Unitarian church. It was funny that, even though I'd lapsed years ago, I still felt Catholic the moment I stepped inside a Protestant church. There just wasn't enough standing, sitting and kneeling. I missed the fonts of holy water, the genuflecting, all those signs of the cross to make, the stained glass, the priest up on the altar pretending that sip of wine was just part of his job.

  Growing up, the nuns taught us we would go to hell forever if we set foot in a Protestant church and then happened to die before we went to confession. They never even mentioned other religions. Anna Doherty asked one day if it was okay to have a friend who was a Protestant. Sister Angeline said only if you didn't go to church with them and were careful to change the subject if they tried to talk you into their religion. "What about bringing them to your church, Sister?" Anna asked.

  "Something to be discouraged. They're generally not in a state of grace."

  The traffic wasn't bad until right around the exit for Cranberry Crossing in Kingston. I'd just looked off to the right to check out the cedar swamp that ran along the side of the highway. Like a scene from a scary movie, gnarled and twisted trees stood knee-deep in murky water. As kids, we'd scour the swamp for monsters whenever we whizzed past on the way to Old Silver Beach or Plimoth Plantation. "Look!" my father would say. "There's one!" He'd point behind him and the car would swerve and my mother would gasp and grab the wheel.

  "Where, Dad?" We tried so hard to see those monsters.

  "You've gotta be quick," he'd say.

  Then he'd floor it until my mother said, "Billy, slow down right this minute. You're going to ruin the whole day." He'd slow down. She'd say, "That's better." He'd speed up. We'd all laugh, including Mom. We knew the routine by heart.

  . . . . .

  The church hall, painted white to match the church and most of the other buildings in town, had a large, recently paved parking lot. Rather than look for a space closer to the church, I parked in a slot at the empty far end. There was no sign of snow this far south. The air felt more like fall than winter, and I threw my hat and gloves back into my Honda before I locked it.

  "Are you here for dinner?" a man asked me just inside the door.

  "Uh, no." I looked down, checking to see if my outfit had invited the question.

  "Then you must be here to serve. Welcome. The food stations have been filled. This is the volunteer line. Put your coat over there. Then just follow it to the end and hop in."

  As I searched for the end of the line, I saw that four Japanese people, three women and a man, sat at the one occupied table. The other dozen round tabl
es, decked out in dark green tablecloths and chrysanthemum-filled vases, looked fresh and inviting. "Yes, come here every year," one of the Japanese women was saying to the tall blond woman refilling her water glass from a pitcher. "Nice custom. Good food."

  The volunteer line petered out about three feet before it would have had to double back. I stood on my tiptoes, trying to see the door I'd come through. I felt as if I were standing in a receiving line at a very large wedding, waiting for the guests to arrive. A white-haired man in front of me turned around. "What would you say? Forty people here and thirty-six of them are volunteers?"

  "Really? So what do we do?"

  "Wait our turn, I guess."

  "It'll get busier, won't it?"

  "Your guess is as good as mine."

  It didn't. We all waited, the buffet people stirring huge stainless-steel chafing dishes, the rest of us shuffling forward a few feet every twenty minutes or so, when a nonvolunteer actually showed up. A couple of families with young children, who ate quickly and left. A few elderly people delivered by the local taxi company, which had donated its services.

  "Jennifer, darling, it smells delightful." An old woman, wearing heavy gold jewelry and lipstick that had mostly missed her lips, smiled up at me. A man wearing a Towne Taxi baseball cap supported her elbow with one hand.

  "Let me know when you're ready to leave, Mrs. Wallace."

  Mrs. Wallace ignored him and reached for my arm. "Jennifer, you look wonderful. Where are the boys? We must sit right down to dinner before it gets cold."

  I was more concerned about cutting in line than with the fact that a strange woman was calling me Jennifer. The handful of people ahead of me were twisting to look over their shoulders at us. "Excuse me, Mrs. Wallace," I said in a voice that would carry. "But it's not my turn yet."