The early success of their band and the attention paid to Kevin and Mick (older than Billy by five and seven years respectively) was our heyday. Because it meant Billy was mine. Just mine. And I was his. As time went on, that became more and more clear.
“Je t’adore,” Billy started saying to me. He was taking French while I had been postponing the required language classes to the end of high school.
“What does that mean?” I said.
He smiled, looking shy. But I knew him well at that point; I knew it was more a pleased expression than bashful. “It means I adore you,” he said.
That word—adore—was one I had always wanted to hear in connection with myself. No, that wasn’t quite right. Rather it was that phrase—I adore you—with emphasis on the you that I had always craved.
When Billy and I officially exchanged “I love yous” four months after we met, we said it at the same time. Our eyes were locked as they often were, but that look carried something even greater. “I love you,” we said again at the same time.
Later, when I saw those music fans (I hated the term groupies) who stared with parted mouths at Mick, I felt camaraderie. The girls, the fans, they wished someone would feel the way about them that Mick sang about in his lyrics.
I knew exactly how they felt because not only did someone feel that about me, but I felt the same way about him.
So to lose that...and in the way that I did... Well, it was a terrible loss.
* * *
I jolted back to the present when I got inside my condo, but I still felt shaken by memories. Synapses inside my brain had connected to a place and time I’d thought I’d outrun, outpaced, outdone.
It was such a painful reminder of how my life (everyone’s life, really) had the potential to be dismantled. Even if one had gone through a deep dismantling like I had, it could happen again, it could unravel further.
Fear took me over—fear of losing the life I’d cobbled together, the one that I was starting to come alive in.
But I couldn’t shake it. A deep sense of foreboding crawled inside me, and it couldn’t be discharged by breathing or perspective or distraction. It only grew that fear.
Finally, I turned off my phone, silencing the faint red light indicating new messages. Not even the potential of texts from Gavin could cheer me.
I turned off my laptop.
Then I got back in bed. And stayed there.
14
That day, I was in and out of a weird fog of a sleep, suddenly bone-exhausted.
I missed Baxter so much. I pined for that dog. Suddenly, it seemed silly that I’d agreed to share the dog with my ex-husband. It was too hard. I thought of how many people I knew who shared custody of children. My heart hurt thinking how hard it must be, how much they must miss their kids.
I sank further and further into a blue mood that seemingly wouldn’t lift.
Until one moment. In that one moment, the bleakness I felt somehow led me to a recognition—I could decide not to give in to the fear. It was my choice.
Life wasn’t always easy. I knew that. And the past could be full of mistakes and pain. Sometimes memories of that could hurt a lot, scare a lot. But it was still my choice as to whether to let fear be the only emotion that resided in me. I could be fearful, I saw then, but still hopeful. I could be fearful and still move through life.
I sat upright. I got out of bed and looked at the clock. Three o’clock. I couldn’t remember having stayed in bed that late since...
Again, for a moment, the memories. Back then, three-in-the-afternoon wake-ups were a way of life.
I shook away the thoughts. I can be fearful and still move through life.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I tried to pull back from my form and gain some perspective.
I looked at the whole of myself. Rather than my usual quick perusal—of my blond hair, my clothes, checking my hazel eyes to ensure no mascara had smeared, checking that pink lipstick did not dot my teeth—I took in all of me. At once.
Then I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, determined to take a run.
I could choose new things. I could continue to change, to evolve if I really wanted to. Even if negative emotions ran through me, I could choose to stay open to things, even those things that scared me.
I ran a brush through my hair and pulled it back, keeping an eye on myself.
Maybe, I thought, I would sleep until three every day. Or maybe I would start going to clubs, to museums, to sailboat races, to horse races, to more street fairs, to see more music, to see the ballet. Maybe I would start cooking rather than carrying out. (Maybe I would actually get one of the slow cookers people were strangely enthusiastic about.) Maybe I would develop a taste for green chilies. Maybe I would start going to church again. Maybe I would move to another city. Maybe to Paris. Or Santa Fe. Maybe I would learn a musical instrument.
That stopped me for a minute. I flashed again on the picture of Billy McGowan in the paper.
But I chose to discard that thought. And when I did, I had an idea. I suddenly knew what I wanted to call my business.
I grabbed a pad of paper off my nightstand and I wrote, “I’d Rather Sleep with the Dog.”
Then I added, “a Jessica Champlin company.”
I put the cap back on the pen.
Right when I was about to walk out the door, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jessica?”
“Yes?” I didn’t recognize the friendly voice.
“It’s Toni Dalloway. I’m Victory’s publicist.”
“Hi, how are you?” I sat down on the bench next to the front door and pulled on my running shoes. I’d met Toni when she’d hired me to style Victory on a few occasions. “Thanks so much for styling DeeDee,” she said. “I never would have thought to do anything special for the dog.”
“Have you seen the images yet?”
“Yes, a bunch. And I love them. I’ll send you a few. Hey, do you want to do more pet gigs?”
“Uh, well, I don’t know. My line of dogwear is really heating up.” I told her the name of my company.
“Are you serious?” she said. “I love that!”
Fueled by her enthusiasm, I asked her what she meant by “pet gigs.”
“Well, all of a sudden, we’re seeing more dogs being photographed with some of my clients. I mean, only if they actually own one, but it seems like such an interesting way to show part of someone’s life.”
I thought about it. I’d been hired to style a CEO at his office next week for Crain’s Chicago Business, but I was leery of doing the typical “man of power at his desk with the skyline behind him” kind of thing. If the guy owned a dog, having the pup in the photo would totally soften him, something the company wanted since he had a reputation of being a shark.
But then I thought of how overwhelmed I’d be if I took on more work. And I chose not to take it. “Toni,” I said, “I do want more work like this, but I’m just so swamped right now. Keep me posted the next time you need something.”
“Well, there is one thing. And it’s a bit time-sensitive so I have to tell you now. The mayor wants a photo op with Superdog.”
I stood. “You’re kidding. The mayor of Chicago?”
“Yep. Wish I could say I thought of it. But they called me.”
I laughed. That was something I liked about Chicagoans on the whole—they were hardworking people who weren’t afraid to give others credit for a good job or idea.
“The call came to me from his people who knew I worked with Victory. They saw her kid’s picture with Victory and Baxter from the day of the shoot. Now the mayor wants his whole family to be in a picture with Superdog. They’re going to consider sending it out as their holiday card.”
“Wow,” I said. Not only
was this a great coup, but it was important for me on a deeper level—the mayor was tied to a huge decision I’d made after Sebastian and I first broke up.
“You want to do it?” Toni said.
“Hell, yeah,” I said. And then I texted Gavin.
15
The mayor was a squat man with powerful shoulders and a head whose size appeared as if it was made for a larger person.
“Superdog!” He crouched, and Baxter ran to him as if he’d known him forever. Then he put his paws on the mayor’s shoulders and began licking his ears.
“Baxy!” I said. “Don’t.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” the mayor said. In one swoop, he picked Baxter up and tucked him under his arm like a football, then walked toward me, the other arm outstretched. Baxter panted happily. Maybe he sensed the power of the guy.
We were in the headquarters of what had once been Mayor Michael Flaherty’s campaign office and was now a PR satellite office.
I was in a great mood because after getting off the phone with Toni yesterday and going for a run, I had spent much of the afternoon texting with Gavin. The texts had gone from those initial ones—Nice to meet you, Nice to meet you, too! to I want to kiss you from Gavin and me responding, Tell me when. His final text had been, Tomorrow night. Can’t wait.
“You’re Jessica,” the mayor said when he reached me.
I shook his hand. “Yes, nice to meet you, Mr. Mayor.”
“Please, call me Mike.”
I almost said, Really? Excellent! Because Mayor Flaherty—Mike—had an unbelievable amount of charisma and deep blue eyes that looked right into you, but also, his very existence held some significance for me. The last election was the first time I voted in Chicago. Debating the mayoral candidates was something Sebastian and I had done when we needed a break from talking about us (and the demise of us). Sebastian loved using his journalistic skills to teach me about the candidates, the issues (oh, there were many in Chicago), and simply about the city itself and how unique it was.
The election rolled around on the same week Sebastian and I decided, officially, we could no longer survive. So deciding to vote in the mayoral race signaled for me another decision—I would stay in Chicago. I wouldn’t return to Manhattan. There was nothing there for me, nothing at all. I’d only lived there originally because of Billy. And the more I thought about it, the more heartbroken I became at the thought of leaving Chicago. I hadn’t realized I was truly in love with the city until Sebastian and I broke up. And at first I thought I was just staying in town because of our shared custody agreement with Baxter. But even though I was often sad when Baxter wasn’t around (constantly imagining the tiny clang-clang of his dog tags) there was no other place, no other city where I wanted to be.
Like Billy, Manhattan had been a first love for me—intense, gripping, giving me no choice but to respond. But I liked the pace of Chicago. I liked the Midwest friendliness. I liked the creative edge that permeated everything.
“Okay...Mike,” I said to the mayor. I stalled for a second on what to say next, whether I should gush. Then I realized my dog had essentially done that for me. I pointed to Baxter. “Sorry about the enthusiastic greeting.”
“Hell, I wish I could get that kind of greeting from my kids. Or some of the aldermen.”
Toni rushed in then, a whirl of black hair flying behind her and dressed in a black suit, black pumps. “Mr. Mayor,” she said, rushing toward us.
“Mike, please.”
She pumped his hand. “Good to see you again.” She gave me a quick hug. “Good to see you, too, Jess!” She turned back to the mayor. “It looks like you and Superdog are getting along.”
“Hell, yeah. I grew up with dogs. Retrievers.”
I knew from reading about him that Mike Flaherty was from an old Irish family in Chicago. He’d also been an Olympic boxer before running a number of campaigns for other people. It was oft said that Flaherty embodied the old Irish ways—he put up a good fight, but he always believed in sharing a pint after.
Some of the mayor’s aides materialized and introduced themselves. One started patting the mayor’s nose with powder, which Mike seemed to barely notice.
“You’re sure you’re all right doing this?” he said to me, gesturing at a set on the other side of the office. It appeared permanent—a skirted area in red with a backdrop featuring tiny flags of Chicago. A draped pedestal had been placed in the middle of the set next to a tall stool.
“Of course.”
“Great, great!” he said. “Why don’t you sit here.” He led us to the set and patted the stool, looking at me.
“Oh, I don’t need to be in the picture,” I said. “This is for you and Baxter.”
“Just for me and Baxter?” He bounced the dog on his hip as if he were a child.
Baxter responded by gazing at him, his black mouth grinning and panting more. I’d once read in a dog behavioral book that panting when not exerted was a sign of happiness, almost of laughter.
“Hell, no! We want you in the photo,” Mike said, answering his own question. “My wife and kids and I—we’ve seen the video about eight hundred times. We love you guys!”
I shrugged. “Fantastic.”
There was a time I would have modestly protested. But it sounded like fun. I thought what a good story this would make on my date with Gavin that night.
One of the staff members called to the mayor from across the room. A door opened then and in walked two blond boys in school uniforms and a woman with a blond bob.
The mayor introduced his wife, Deb Walker, who was taller than him and had a lovely smile. She gave me a warm handshake. She pointed at her kids. “And this is Charlie and Tate.”
The mayor had put the dog on the floor and the boys were petting him. They waved.
“They’re usually good about shaking hands,” Deb said. “But they’re too excited about Superdog, I think.”
More staff members floated around us, as did a photographer and assistants, but progress on setting up the shoot kept getting waylaid by people’s desire to say hi to Superdog. The Flahertys were remarkable in their ability to chat good-naturedly when we were all finally herded into the set area. More chairs were brought in, then the place was relit. All the while, the kids and various assistants played with Baxter, lifting him up on the pedestal.
When the photographer pointed at the stool for me to sit, I hopped up on it and adjusted the loose white cotton blouse I’d worn (fit for the tropical heat Chicago was now muscling through).
On the pedestal, Baxter obediently sat and stayed. He was wearing a new design of mine—two collars that fitted together, one on top of the other. A buyer could pick blue and orange for a Bears game on Sunday, then change it the next day to blue and red for a Cubs game. The one Baxter wore now was maroon on one side, gold on the other. I kept looking at Bax, fearing he’d leap off the pedestal, but the Flaherty boys were feeding him treats and holding on to him.
“This is fantastic!” Toni said from the edge of the set where she stood.
The photographer was evidently accustomed to fast shoots because despite sending in his assistants to adjust hair and clothing a few times, he got off a number of shots in fifteen minutes.
The mayor left in a flurry of people, waving over his shoulder. His wife and kids took a few more minutes and then the mayor’s staff expertly hustled everyone out.
Toni, Baxter and I walked out onto LaSalle Street, right near the Dubuffet sculpture—a hulking black-and-white thing in the middle of a slick metro area. It felt as if we were at the hub of the city right then.
“That was amazing!” Toni said. She bent down and picked up Baxter, kissing him on the top of his golden head and putting him down.
“Thanks for getting us in,” I said.
“Are you kidding?” She yanke
d off her suit jacket, threw it over her arm and pulled out her phone.
We found a sidewalk café and Toni went inside to get us iced teas. I sat in the shade of an L train rumbling occasionally overhead, thinking how fun the photo shoot had been, how...joyous. And all because I hadn’t refused the mayor’s offer to be in it. I had stayed open. I had let it be.
When Toni got back we sipped our tea and she told me how happy the photographer had been, and how much the mayor seemed to enjoy himself (which apparently wasn’t always the case).
Her phone dinged. She looked down and read a few things. Her eyes went wide. “They’re running it tomorrow in the paper.”
“What?”
She held out her phone, showing me a message from the mayor’s assistant. Then she put her phone back in her pocket.
I watched an L train snake by overhead, then I turned back to Toni. “I’ve got a business proposition for you.”
“Tell me,” she said.
“I wondered if you wanted to work with me.”
Toni wore tortoiseshell sunglasses that curled up at the edges of the frames, each dotted with a little crystal. She took them off and looked at me. “I am definitely listening.”
“Well, here’s the thing,” I said. “My dog businesses are bringing in money, but I’ve got a lot going out the door to web development and supplies and shipping.”
I told her how I couldn’t keep up with the myriad of media requests. Although there were a few haters, many of the requests were very nice. We’d had two emails from the families of sick kids, kids who likely wouldn’t be around in a year. One of their last wishes was to meet Superdog. Baxter and I were already making plans to fulfill those wishes. Then there were the ones from local papers or TV shows. I hated not to return emails and phone calls. Then there were the requests for styling.
The Dog Park Page 7
