A Dog Called Jack

by Ivy Pembroke

“Because there is no debate about that,” said Ellen.

  “Right. But his entire life before he came here had a different view and, frankly, no matter what my opinions on American football might be, his mum and I met for the first time at an American football game and he knows that story and I can’t really fault him, Ellen, for making this costume choice.”

  “Of course not,” Ellen said. “You’re right. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “I know,” said Sam, still sorting through fabric. “I’m just feeling a bit stressed, given how late I’ve cut this.”

  “Hey, don’t beat yourself up too much. One year I completely forgot Halloween and so I grabbed whatever I had handy and dressed Sophie and Evie as ‘ladies of the evening.’”

  Sam looked across at her. “You dressed your daughters as prostitutes?”

  “It sounds bad when you say it like that.”

  Sam watched for a second as Ellen sorted through the stuff she’d brought before saying, “Also, the stuff you had hanging around your house just happened to be perfect for a prostitute costume?”

  “I told you that story to help you feel better,” remarked Ellen, “and now I’m regretting it.”

  Sam grinned, and glanced over at the door as Jack scratched at it. He walked over and opened it and said, “Teddy’s at Pari’s.”

  Jack wagged his tail in thanks and moved away.

  Sam turned from the door to find Ellen looking at him with a soft, dreamy expression on her face, as if Sam had suddenly done something impossibly sweet.

  “What?” Sam said warily. “I don’t really speak Dog, you know, he’s just . . . very clever. I’m not Doctor Dolittle.”

  Ellen’s lips twitched. “I didn’t think you spoke Dog.”

  “Then what’s that look for, like I’ve done something that’s going to make you weep?”

  “Weep with pride. Good weeping. Because! Look how far you’ve come! You were so worried, when you first moved back here, and now look at you. Teddy has friends on the street, and a street dog, and it’s Halloween and he’s going to dress up and have fun and . . . you’ve just come a long way. And I’m proud of you and happy for you. It feels like it was just yesterday I was helping you move in and you were a wreck.”

  “I wasn’t a wreck,” denied Sam.

  “You were a wreck. So. Let’s talk about Teddy’s teacher. Salad Woman, or whatever you call her.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “Carrot Woman. Except that’s not what I call her anymore.”

  “Oh? What do you call her now?” Ellen asked it with an arched eyebrow, as if the answer was going to be something delightfully, deliciously naughty.

  So Sam had to say as casually as possible, looking very closely at a sweatband in Ellen’s pile of stuff, “Miss Quinn.”

  “Miss Quinn?” Ellen echoed, sounding like she was swallowing hysterical laughter. “Oh, yes, that is definitely progress.”

  “Stop it, okay?” Sam reached over and gave Ellen, now engaged in open hilarity, a minor shove. “It’s . . . complicated. She’s Teddy’s teacher, and Teddy adores her, and what if it doesn’t work out?”

  “What if lots of things,” Ellen said. “What if it does? She’s not going to be Teddy’s teacher forever. And presumably no matter who you start dating you would hope that Teddy likes her, so you’re always going to have the issue of worrying about something not working out with someone Teddy likes. Yeah, it’s complicated. That’s life.”

  Sam sighed. “It’s just that I had forgotten what complete agony this entire situation is. Like, falling in love is bollocks.”

  Ellen seized upon that immediately, eyes sharp on Sam. “Falling in love? Do you think you’re in love with her?”

  “No,” Sam said. “But I don’t know where it could go, you know? I . . . want to know more about her, I want to know the her of her, and meeting people you feel like you could have endless conversations with is a rare thing and a precious thing and—”

  “Then don’t complicate it,” said Ellen gently. “You’re right, about all of that. So don’t complicate it. Have you talked to Teddy about this?”

  “Not explicitly,” Sam admitted. “I mean, he knows, about my interest, but we haven’t—”

  “I would talk to him, then. And I would stop stressing out about it. Life’s too short, Sam. Too short for you to spend time second-guessing what could be happiness.”

  Sam knew she was right. Sam knew that he, of all people, should know that. He nodded.

  Ellen said, “Right, then. What you should stress out about is your last-minute Halloween costume here.”

  * * *

  On Halloween morning, when the doorbell rang, Sam was in the middle of using his first cup of coffee to approximate being a functioning human being and Teddy was in the middle of eating his cereal.

  Sam looked blankly toward the front door. “Was that the doorbell?”

  It rang again.

  “Uh huh.” Teddy nodded. “The day’s first adventure.”

  “Like putting that costume together for you wasn’t adventure enough,” mumbled Sam, and went to answer the door.

  It was Diya and Pari. Pari was dressed as a very realistic zombie. Diya was carrying a tray.

  Sam forced himself to be pleasant, even though he thought it was a bit early for neighborly socializing. “Don’t you look terrifying,” he said to Pari.

  Pari grinned and roared and grinned again. The grinning really undercut the effectiveness of the roaring. “Is Teddy here?”

  “Yes, he’s finishing up his cereal. Did you want to walk to school together?” They didn’t usually. Because usually Sam was running incredibly late and just about getting Teddy out the door. He didn’t know how Diya was so unruffled and organized, when getting a child ready for school was like having to forge a major international treaty on a daily basis.

  “Cereal?” Pari wrinkled her nose. “That’s what he’s having for breakfast on Halloween? And not brains?”

  “Well, he isn’t dressed as a zombie,” Sam pointed out reasonably. “Only zombies have brains for breakfast.”

  “I guess.” Pari, clearly tired of the boring grown-ups, went running past Sam toward Teddy in the kitchen.

  Sam looked at Diya. “I assume she didn’t actually have brains for breakfast, but I suppose I shouldn’t question Pari’s commitment to her costume.”

  “If you put some green food coloring in some scrambled eggs, it looks like brains.” Diya shrugged.

  Sam stared. “You actually made her ‘brains’ for breakfast?”

  “To stop her whining about it.”

  “Did it even taste good?”

  “She didn’t complain. Here.” Diya handed across the tray.

  “What’s this?” Sam peeked underneath the foil.

  “It’s coconut chikki,” Diya replied.

  “Well, it looks delicious,” Sam said. “It was very sweet of you to make it for me.”

  Diya scowled. “I didn’t make it for you.”

  “Oh,” said Sam awkwardly, and wanted to say, You’re on my doorstep offering me this tray. It seemed like a logical conclusion to draw.

  Diya continued, “I made it for the class’s Halloween party today.”

  Sam blinked at her, horrified. “Oh, God, were we supposed to make something to bring? Was that in the Turtledove Chronicle? I didn’t see it. Damn, I’ll have to run to—”

  “No,” Diya hissed at him, and the idiot was only implied but it was very loudly implied. “They are for you to offer for the Halloween party.”

  Sam felt hopelessly confused, and he wasn’t even entirely sure it could all be blamed on the lack of coffee. “For me . . . ?”

  “Yes.” Diya nodded, like he was finally grasping the concept.

  He wasn’t grasping the concept. “You . . . want me to pretend to have made an Indian dessert? Why? No one would ever believe that. I routinely ruin cereal.”

  Diya rolled her eyes. “Which is exactly why you could never bring anything you had m
ade to class. The food at your barbecue was really very sad.”

  “Wow,” said Sam drily, “thanks.”

  Diya ignored him in favor of saying, “But this. My chikki is delicious and Miss Quinn will be impressed.”

  Finally, finally everything clicked into place. Maybe the coffee kicked in, too. Sam sighed. “Diya, she’ll know I didn’t make this—”

  “But she’ll appreciate the thought.”

  “But it’s your thought.”

  “It’s my thought I’m giving to you. It’s fine. You are hopeless. I am trying to make you less hopeless.”

  “I’m not hopeless,” Sam grumbled. Diya gave him a look.

  “I am not entirely hopeless,” he amended.

  “No, if you were entirely hopeless, I would warn Miss Quinn away from you. But instead I think you have enough potential that she should give you a chance.”

  “You excel at damning with faint praise,” remarked Sam.

  “What does that mean?” asked Diya.

  “Never mind. I suppose I’ll escort the children to school and hand across the chikki?”

  “Yes,” said Diya. “Don’t drop it on the way.”

  “Not that hopeless,” Sam told her.

  But then he almost dropped it carrying it back into the kitchen and reevaluated that assessment.

  * * *

  Bill watched Sam and Teddy and the little Indian girl leave for school, the children dressed absurdly, and it was only then that he realized the date. Halloween.

  He was still standing at the window trying to discern what Teddy was meant to be when the black woman from up the street who was always running spotted him and waved enthusiastically. Jack, distracted from trotting behind the children, now came nipping at the woman’s heels as she jogged up Bill’s front path.

  Bill wanted to just say go away. Or better yet, not answer the door. But she’d seen him standing right there and he felt compelled not to be rude.

  That was the problem with talking to all these people now. Suddenly Bill felt like he couldn’t just ignore them any longer. There was always something going on. Never a dull moment.

  The woman rapped on his door and waved to him cheerfully through the window.

  Jack barked.

  How had he started talking to all of these people in the first place? He was now no longer clear on how he’d got to this point. He swung the door open and demanded, “What do you want?”

  Jack barked hello to him and added a good morning lick for good measure.

  “Did you get my note, about Bonfire Night?” she asked.

  “Yes. I got it.”

  “So I’ve been thinking. The families with children will of course want to attend the fireworks. And Max is mad about fireworks; he always makes a point of dragging Arthur to a show every year. So I think it makes sense that I be the one to stay home with Jack, and I wanted to make sure you were all right with Jack staying at my house, or might you prefer that I stay here with Jack?”

  Bill stared at her. “Stay here with Jack?” he managed finally.

  “Yes.” The woman nodded.

  “Stay here with Jack?” Bill felt that suggestion was so absurd it needed to be repeated twice.

  “Or I could take Jack to my house,” offered the woman. “I wanted to know which you preferred.”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  The woman beamed at him. “Because Jack belongs to the street and you’re part of the street. A vitally important part.”

  Bill lifted his eyebrows. This woman was off her rocker. “Why does anyone need to stay with Jack in the first place?”

  “Because fireworks are very distressing to dogs, and so someone ought to stay home with Jack and make sure he can feel comforted. And I think it makes sense for me to be the one to do that. I can take or leave the fireworks; they’re not important to me.”

  “I’m not going to any fireworks,” Bill said. “Jack can stay with me.”

  “Oh, but you must!” protested the woman. “Everyone is looking forward to going to the fireworks with you!”

  “You’re daft,” was Bill’s succinct pronouncement.

  The woman laughed. “Maybe,” she said. “You might be right. Anyway. Think about it.” And then, with a cheerful wave, she went jogging off.

  Jack stayed behind, looking after her.

  “After a conversation with her, we deserve a nap, don’t you think?”

  It was early in the morning, but Bill had never known Jack not to be utterly delighted at the prospect of a nap.

  Jack wagged his tail happily and trotted inside.

  * * *

  Pari and Teddy seemed happy enough as they walked to school, chattering away in their costumes. Other kids walking along the street toward school were also in costumes, and Sam compared them critically to Teddy’s and thought that he hadn’t done too badly.

  Teddy’s uniform was a little dubious. Sam had managed to find an old jersey and the shoulder pads within it were created from shoulder pads from a hideous sequined jacket Ellen had owned (“I had to dress up as Cyndi Lauper once,” she had explained. “Why?” Sam had asked. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to,” Ellen had replied). But Sam had managed to track down a genuine US football helmet that fitted Teddy’s head in a vague sort of way, and Sam thought that was all that was necessary to signal what the costume was.

  Sam, feeling only a little like an idiot, followed the children into the school, carefully balancing his tray of Diya-made coconut chikki. Miss Quinn—he really had to learn her name at some point—smiled dazzlingly when she saw him. Or maybe it was just a standard smile for her, and Sam interpreted it as dazzling. Maybe Miss Quinn smiled at everyone in an equally dazzling way, and there was nothing particularly special about him.

  “Hello, Teddy and Pari,” she said, coming up to the knot of them. “Terrifying zombie. And what are you meant to be, Teddy?”

  “A football player,” Teddy said staunchly.

  “An American football player,” Sam clarified to Miss Quinn, who looked vaguely confused. “He insisted.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet. So.” Miss Quinn, hand fidgeting with the star charm on her necklace, looked at him and smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit to my classroom?”

  Was that an emphasis on the word pleasure, or was that Sam’s overeager imagination? He wanted to read attraction and infatuation in every tiny movement of Miss Quinn’s. Of course, there was also the fact that Sam was so attuned to every tiny movement of Miss Quinn’s that he noticed this, and wondered if she was as attuned to his tiny movements in return, and if he was projecting attraction and infatuation.

  “Dad,” hissed Teddy, and Sam realized he was staring.

  “Oh. Right.” Sam cleared his throat. “I have brought you coconut chikki,” he explained. He tried to offer the tray of chikki with a flourish but he probably just looked like an idiot.

  Miss Quinn peeked under the foil and said, “Coconut chikki! How talented of you!”

  “I didn’t make it,” Sam said, deciding it was ridiculous to pretend otherwise. “Pari’s mother made it.”

  Miss Quinn looked up at him, dimples peeking. “I assumed. I assumed that the man utterly bewildered by vegetables hadn’t suddenly started making coconut chikki.”

  “I can make plenty of things,” Sam said, which was kind of a lie. He even felt Teddy give him a dry look that Sam ignored.

  Not that Sam had a choice, because Miss Quinn laughed, and Sam would have ignored a great deal if Miss Quinn was laughing. Sam would notice almost nothing in the face of Miss Quinn laughing.

  Teddy, getting antsy, said, “We’re going to go and play.”

  “Yeah,” Sam agreed, forcing his attention back to him. “Have a wonderful day, both of you.”

  Pari smiled at him, as did Teddy, and then they rushed off together.

  Miss Quinn said, “You will have to prove that eventually, you know. That you actually are capable of producing food that
might keep you and your child alive.”

  Which . . . might have been a way of trying to lobby for a date invitation? Or might have just been a teacher expressing concern about the welfare of a student? Sam wasn’t sure. Damn it, it had just been so long since he had had to do this. Had he ever even had to do this? It was different, meeting someone you were interested in as a university student rather than an adult. It was different trying to decide how you ought to pursue a relationship with your son’s teacher.

  So of course Sam said a ridiculous thing in reply, which was, “She thinks I’m hopeless.”

  “Who?” said Miss Quinn, not even questioning the hopeless part of Sam’s statement, because clearly that was true.

  “Pari’s mum,” Sam answered.

  “Hopeless about what?”

  “You,” Sam heard himself say, as if from a great distance.

  No, no, Clever Sam shouted in his head. What are you doing? Why would you say that? You sound pathetic.

  But then Miss Quinn’s smile widened, and her eyes were bright, and she didn’t look away from him; indeed, if anything, Sam thought it possible she leaned closer to him.

  Well done, said Foolish Sam who said whatever popped into his head. Brilliant thing to say.

  “And what’s your assessment on that particular front?” asked Miss Quinn.

  Sam looked at her, definitely standing much closer to him, and was reminded that he’d fallen directly into those eyes the last time he’d been in near proximity with her and he still hadn’t found a way of struggling out of them. He made a list of the things he wanted to do: tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear again; lean forward to press his nose against the soft skin beneath her jaw; taste that teasing corner of her mouth, the taunting invitation of her dimples. Sam couldn’t decide which he would rather do first. “Oh, absolutely hopeless,” he murmured, drinking in the sight of her, every incredible, amazing detail of her. “Absolutely.”

  The smile faded on Miss Quinn’s face, replaced by a look that was intent, and expectant, lips parted and breath short. Her eyes left his to dart to his mouth and then back up again. Sam thought how easy it would be to cup his hand around her cheek, lean closer, press his forehead against hers and breathe, for just a second, in that world-falling-away stillness that Miss Quinn seemed able to provoke in him. Everything else—everything—seemed very far away. There was only the two of them, standing there, quiet and anticipating, and Sam inching himself closer to a decision, to that point where he would tip toward her and—