by Claire Cook
"Nonsense, Jennifer. Just call them. The hostess always calls the guests to dinner. Doesn't the table look lovely."
The table did look lovely. I helped Mrs. Wallace into her chair, adjusted the centerpiece, wondered if I should try to borrow some boys. I smiled at her. She smiled back encouragingly so I headed toward the buffet table. I thought about asking one of the buffet servers for some advice along with the two plates they were piling high with turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes. Excuse me, I might say, but I'm sitting with a woman who thinks I'm Jennifer. Should I encourage this misperception or nip it in the bud?
The servers seemed more interested in the plates they were filling than the psychological condition of their recipients, so I thanked them and returned to the table. Mrs. Wallace solved the problem of the boys for me. "Don't you just love the way the children rush off as soon as they finish eating? And Timmy so loves it when they all conjugate in his bedroom."
"Mmm," I said. I had a clear image of our imaginary children practicing their verbs. Yo tengo, tu tienes, usted tiene . . . I watched as Mrs. Wallace, using the tines of her fork, lined up her peas around the outside edge of her plate. It looked like a green pearl necklace. I wanted to make one, too.
One by one, Mrs. Wallace began to squash her peas. I winced as each skin exploded. The insides catapulted across her plate, colliding with the mashed potatoes. So far she hadn't eaten a single bite. Once I got used to her bursting peas, I started in on my own dinner. I set a good example by bringing each forkful directly to my mouth instead of moving the food around creatively on my plate. As children, we'd made igloos with our turkey dinners. We mounded the mashed potatoes and shingled them with carefully cut pieces of turkey. We dribbled the gravy evenly over the entire dwelling, then scraped it off in the shape of doors and windows. Unlike Mrs. Wallace, we piled our peas outside the door. They were our snowball weapons in case we were attacked.
Our parents played along. They would judge our creations, giving us each a different award. Best House in a Blizzard, Most Likely to Be Eaten First. And just before we'd dig in and actually eat, my father would give out a final award. He'd raise his wineglass. We'd know to pick up our glasses of milk in response. "Before we conclude this evening's festivities by eating ourselves out of house and home," he'd say, pausing for a laugh, "I'd like to announce the winner of the Loveliest of the Lovely Love of My Life Perfect Wife award. And the winner is Marjorie Hurlihy, the best gosh darn wife I've had all year."
"She's the only wife you've had all year," we'd yell.
"Criminy. You've got me there."
Mrs. Wallace crossed her knife and fork like tiny swords over her plate. "Now tell me, is Laurence still in transmission?"
I wondered if she was asking about Jennifer's husband or her mechanic. "I think so," I tried.
She shook her head and adjusted her bracelets. Her hands must have been lovely once. Her fingers were still long and tapered, but bent and knotty at the joints instead of smooth and elegant. I wondered if she could still take her rings off. "You've given him more than enough time to find his itch. It's high time you told him to get a job. Trust me on that, Jennifer. A man needs to work to be a man."
"His what?"
"His itch, his raison d'etre, the passion in life that helps him come face-to-face with his own morality. None of us lives forever, you know. You've given him more than enough time."
I considered her assessment of my imaginary husband while we finished our slices of pumpkin pie in a companionable silence. The Towne Taxi man walked over to the table. I thought about offering to drive Mrs. Wallace home myself. I really didn't want to see her house though. I was lonely enough now without thinking that it might be worse someday. "We'd better get going, Mrs. Wallace," the taxi driver said. "I promised your daughter I'd have you there for dessert no later than four."
"You have a daughter nearby?" I asked. I was surprised at how betrayed I felt.
"Yes, of course. You know that. Her name is Jennifer, too."
"Why didn't you have dinner with her?"
"Cornish gay men."
"What?"
"She expects me to eat Cornish gay men. On Thanksgiving. Can you imagine, Jennifer?"
Chapter
Twenty
Even as an adult, the return ride from anywhere always seemed shorter. I flew over the Bourne Bridge and around the rotary, headed north on Route 3. Driving home when we were kids, Dad always had a beer tucked between his knees. Narragansett or Schlitz, always tall, always a can. When he finished one, he'd hand it over his shoulder to the backseat. Anything connected to Dad was just so glamorous to us that we'd fight over who got to place the empty in the brown paper bag between our feet. "Another dead soldier," we'd say.
The luckiest child got to open a fresh one. I could still feel the click of the tin ring under my finger as I lifted it away from the can, hear the effervescent release as the opening split along its keyhole lines. In those days, the ring would pull completely off the can. I would wear it proudly, and it would grace, and sometimes cut, my fingers.
None of us would ever pass up the one small sip The Opener was entitled to before passing the can up to Dad. Even though the taste was disgusting, it was also both foreign and familiar, incredibly sophisticated. "Yum," we would say. "Just what the doctor ordered."
. . . . .
"Just eat around the pink parts," Dolly was saying over the whir of the electric carving knife.
"Absolutely not," Carol said. "It's an invitation to salmonella."
"Can I have another roll?" asked one of the kids. Trevor, I thought, but possibly Ian. I turned on the tap in the kitchen, filled a glass with water, drank it. Thought about whether to push open the swinging door to the dining room, or sneak back out and drive to my house. I wondered if I should at least peek in and check on Siobhan. I'd been feeling a little bit guilty that I hadn't invited her to move in with me. I'd be relieved to see she hadn't gone elsewhere, but was safe, if bored, at our dining room table.
"It's not so bad on this side," Dad's voice said optimistically. He took out his electric knife only three times a year, Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, and it never failed to put him in a good mood. I could hear him revving the motor now and pictured his big right hand enveloping the harvest-gold handle.
"We simply cannot eat raw meat," said Carol.
"Can't we put it in the microwave?" asked Michael.
"That'll dry it out."
"So what. We have gravy."
"I'm hungry."
"Me, too."
"Well, next time you folks can get your own turkey. Dolly will just go somewhere where she's appreciated."
"Now, now, settle down. Don't get your coconuts all in a bunch. Start sending the rest of the food around the table while I go take care of this bird."
. . . . .
My decision to run away took a moment too long, so my father found me when he walked into the kitchen. "Hi, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving."
"Sarry, my darlin', you're just in time. Possibly even a smidge early. Give me a hug and help me figure out how to feed my family."
Dolly was right behind him. "That's it. I have had it. Dolly wants to go home right now. And don't think you can talk me out of it, Mr. Sweet-Talking Billy Hurlihy."
"Dolly, darlin'. You march back into that dining room and sit your pretty little self down and I'll be in with the bird momentarily. Sarah, why don't you go on in with Dolly?"
Dolly was wearing shiny black slacks and a longhaired pink sweater scattered randomly with rhinestone baubles. She crossed her arms under her chest, and I noticed that two of the jewels landed on the exact points of her breasts. She stamped one tiny foot three times on the scuffed linoleum floor. "Take. Me. Home."
"Dolly, honey. We are all of us about to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner. A blessed time for any family. So you just sit tight until after dessert." My father loaded the platter of turkey into the microwave. Squinted at the electronic panel, pushed a couple of buttons.
<
br /> "Fine. If that's the way you're going to be, Dolly will walk home." Dolly picked up her coat from the back of a kitchen chair. She draped it over her bent arms, gave my father a menacing look. The rhinestones stayed in position.
My father tilted his head sideways, shook it back and forth a few times. Ran his fingers through the same clump of white hair that always strayed into his eyes. "Sarah," he said quietly. "Please drive Dolly home."
. . . . .
I backed my Civic out of the driveway. That was it. I had had it. It was one thing to be expected to watch my brother's Saint Bernard so his family could catch up on their sleep, or to know that my sixteen-year-old niece might show up on my doorstep at any moment. It was, however, quite another to be sucked into chauffeuring my father's disagreeable little girlfriend home so he could finish cooking her turkey. And, come to think of it, this was not the first but the second time I'd been stuck babysitting Dolly. I imagined myself turning the car around, marching back into my father's house and treating them all to a litany of my complaints. Even though I knew what one of them, probably Carol, would say to me when I finished: You want a medal or a chest to pin it on?
I was so involved in my imaginary ranting that Dolly's voice beside me was something of a surprise. "Don't think Dolly's going to let you talk her into going back. So you can just save your breath. Once Dolly makes up her mind, there's simply no changing it. And you can tell that silver-tongued father of yours I said so."
I pressed a little harder on the accelerator, didn't say a word.
"And one more thing you can tell him is that he's not the only fish in the deep blue sea. Dolly's never had any problem attracting boyfriends from the male population." I took a couple of deep breaths, tried to remember how June looked when she was meditating. Wished I'd thought to ask her for a few tips.
"And speaking of which, you're no spring chicken yourself," Dolly was saying when I pulled my car in front of her trailer. "You better get busy, girlie, or all the good ones'll be gone."
"Have a nice day," I said as she climbed out of my car. I didn't really mean it but figured it didn't count as a lie because it was already night. A floodlight lit up as Dolly approached her door, and I noticed that the turkey wreath had already been replaced. Red and green spray-painted pinecones encircled a plastic reindeer with a shiny red nose. Rudolf, I presumed.
I had been brought up to think that if I couldn't find something to like about a person, it was merely a reflection of the smallness of my mind, the coldness of my heart. Even when I threatened myself with these accusations, I still couldn't stand Dolly. The best I could come up with was that the more my father brought her around, the better the rest of the family would probably get along, joined as we would be by our mutual dislike.
I knew it was silly, but before I left, I circled twice around the trailer park hoping to see Bob Connor. The second time, I pulled just past his trailer, put my car into park, turned off my headlights and stared into his dark, empty windows.
I felt as if I were in high school, on what my friends and I used to call a mission, scouting out a guy one of us had a crush on. We'd drive through his neighborhood, cruise past the place he worked. It was crucial not to get caught. These were fact-finding expeditions only. Parents home after school? Basketball hoop in yard? Afterschool job shift ends at seven-thirty? Planning the eventual approach could take months. In retrospect, it was the most fun part.
My heart was beating as it had a couple of decades ago. I felt again the combination of the fear of getting caught and the thrill of invading the personal space of the ordinary boys we'd daydreamed into something more. Now, as then, I was propelled by boredom and loneliness and longing. And the fact that I happened to be in the neighborhood.
Headlights appeared in my rearview mirror. I scrunched down low and waited. The headlights stayed in my mirror. I heard a car door open and close, wondered why the lights were still on. I pretended to search for something on the floor of my car. A sharp knock on the driver's side window made me jump. I banged my head on the steering wheel, swore softly.
"What a nice surprise," Bob Connor mouthed outside my car.
"Hi," I said, rolling down my window. "I just dropped Dolly off as a favor to my father. I was about to drive back."
"With your lights out?"
"My lights are out? Gee, thanks, I didn't even notice."
"You might want to start your engine, too." Bob smiled broadly.
Chapter
Twenty-one
Why did I say yes? I wondered as Bob turned the key in his lock. He pushed the door open with one hand, balanced a pile of foil-wrapped packages on the other. I could smell pumpkin pie for sure, maybe apple, too. "After you, Teach."
A small black puppy bounded into sight, barking ferociously in a high-pitched imitation of the dog it would become. It stopped a few feet away from us, hindquarters wagging along with the upturned tail. "A puppy," I said. "Aww. I didn't know you had a puppy." I knelt down to pat it and it licked my hand. Its face was a mass of wrinkles. "Wait a minute. I thought you didn't like dogs."
"I don't. But I'm crazy about puppies."
"What happens when it grows up?"
"I won't let it."
I thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose that's worked pretty well for you so far."
"Why, Ms. Hurlihy, how very witty. Any other assaults on my character before we move along?"
"No, but I do have a question about the puppy. Or, should I say, the other puppy. What is it?"
"Pretty much a mutt. A girl mutt named Wrinkles." Bob put his face down to hers, rubbed her ears. The top of Bob's head was inches from where I was patting. I could almost feel his curls against the backs of my fingers, the dark brown strands softer than the coarse grays. "Isn't that right, Wrinkles? And we're both going to ignore Sarah's 'other puppy' comment, aren't we?" He looked back up at me, smiled. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be that close, but I was afraid if I stood up my knees would crack. "The mother was a shar-pei. The father showed up, had his way with her and then took off. A real dog. The state is trying to track him down for child support."
I laughed, stayed where I was, kept patting. "Good, I hope they get him. She looks like a wrinkled black lab to me. That's who I'd go after first, all the good-looking labs in the neighborhood. Where did you get her?"
"She's June's."
I pulled my hand away. The puppy followed it around to my back, started licking it again. "How nice for you both," I said.
"It's payback for watching Austin. June's helped me out a few times."
"I bet." I stood up, coughing to cover the sound of my knees. Wrinkles stretched out across my feet, started sucking the toe of my shoe.
"She's been a good friend, someone to talk to. It gets a little lonely around here sometimes." He looked around the room and I followed his gaze. A solitary sofa was the only substantial piece of furniture in sight. An old green nylon sleeping bag was draped over it, worn plaid arms peeked out on either side. Strategically placed safety pins kept the sleeping bag from sliding off.
"Were you a Boy Scout?"
"Yeah, why?"
"My brothers had the exact same sleeping bags."
Two lawn chairs sat across from the couch. Woven mesh strips in brown and orange were attached to tubular metal frames. A clothesline was tied around the arm of one chair. I followed it to the other end, a dusty paddle fan with plastic blades molded to look like wicker. Socks, T-shirts and underwear were clothes-pinned to the line. Boxers, I noted. "I hate the Laundromat," Bob said. "Really, really hate it." He picked up Wrinkles, tipped her back in his arms like a baby. "Have a seat. I'll grab us some beer."
I sat in the chair not attached to Bob's underwear. In shorts, this type of chair might leave an imprint on the backs of my thighs. I was glad it was fall and that I was wearing a long skirt. I could see the twin of Dolly's kitchen through a doorway. "I can only stay for a couple of minutes," I said to Bob's back as he reached into the refrigerator.
Bob handed me a Sam Adams. I decided not to say anything about compatible taste in beer. I took a sip, couldn't think of a damn thing to say. Maybe I'd have to mention Sam Adams after all. I looked around the room again. Looked at Bob. Light blue shirt tucked into chinos, sleeves rolled, tie loosened. Casual prep. His aversion for Laundromats must not carry over to dry cleaners. "What exactly do you do for work?" I asked. I couldn't seem to remember from Austin's parent-teacher conference.
"I'm trying to finish my doctoral thesis."
"In what?"
"History. Civil War period. What Austin's mother affectionately calls glorified toy soldier play."
I decided not to touch that one. "What do you do for money?"
"Teach history courses at any college that will have me as an adjunct. And when I'm really broke, I work on my brother's lobster boat."
"And your wife, uh, Austin's mother, does something at a bank?"
"She divides her time equally between making more money than I do and telling me to grow up."
"Oh."
"Listen, Sarah, okay? The story about June is that there is no story about June."
I made my face neutral, reached down to pat Wrinkles. She squeezed between my ankles and watched Bob while I watched her.
"Okay, we had one date."
I put my beer on the speckled linoleum, brought Wrinkles to my lap. She stood up on her hind legs to lick my face.
"But nothing happened. June's a little bit scary, actually. From another planet or something. I couldn't talk to her. Plus, she's just a kid. She's a babe, though. God, that hair. It was the hair that did it. But we're friends now and she and Austin have this mutual love affair going." He reached over to pat Wrinkles, his hand brushing mine. "You're great to talk to, Sarah. You really are."
It was hard to think while sitting this close to Bob. I had to get away for a minute. "Excuse me," I said, handing him the puppy. "But may I please use the bathroom?"
