Must Love Dogs

by Claire Cook

  I laughed, hoping it sounded believable. I wondered if I was feeling bad because I liked John more than I realized. Or was it because he was so willing to move ahead without me? “So, um, what was it like?”

  “Awful. It was at this woman’s house in Cambridge. She was probably older than my mother. You know the type. Big house, money so old that you’d never even guess she had any. Tweed skirts with knee-high rubber gardening boots.”

  “Or a pearl necklace with lace-up oxfords.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, she’d sent out invitations to all the single people she knew, roughly between the ages of birth and death, and asked them to bring friends who were single but not romantic possibilities for themselves. It was like being in a twisted version of A Christmas Carol, seeing the Ghost of Singles Past, the Ghost of Singles Present, the Ghost of Singles Future. You know, the entire continuum of loneliness. Believe me, it wasn’t a pretty sight.”

  I tried to face the fact that I should probably ask John if he could get me added to the list for her next party. I mean, now that John had moved on without me, what was left? “So what did everybody do?” I asked.

  “Drank okay wine. Ate so-so hors d’oeuvres. Checked each other out. Then the hostess made us all sit in a circle and tell something personal about ourselves and what we were looking for. You wouldn’t have believed these people.”

  “What did they say?” Despite my impending depression, I was interested.

  “Well, the first couple of people just whined about their ex-spouses.”

  “Look who’s talking,” I said before I could stop myself.

  Fortunately, John laughed. “I do whine about my ex- spouse, don’t I?”

  “Well, now that you mention it…. but finish your story.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out. I’ll work on it. Okay, let’s see, the next person talked about conflicted sexuality. The one after that about conflicted geography.”

  “What?”

  “You know, whether he’d be happier on the West Coast.”

  “Oh, I get it.”

  “And then, get this, one woman stood up and said a couple of years ago she thought her marriage was over. So she had an affair with another man and suddenly the sex in her marriage had never been so good and the sex with the other guy was pretty good, too, and it was all a bit complicated but seemed to work for her. But then the guy she was having an affair with got sick of waiting for her to leave her husband so he found someone else. But not before he told her husband about the affair. The husband left her. And so, she said, she was grieving them both and hoping to transcend the pain and move forward into a new relationship.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. I left before it was my turn. Pretended to go to the bathroom and took off.”

  “I don’t blame you.” I was so busy being relieved that he hadn’t stayed around to meet someone that at first I didn’t realize someone was knocking at my door. “John, someone’s at my door.”

  “Sarah, if you want to hang up, just say so.”

  “No, someone’s really at my door. Can you stay on the line while I see who it is? Nobody ever comes over this late.”

  “Okay. Don’t just open the door, Sarah. Check first.”

  I couldn’t see a thing when I looked out the peephole. The knocking started up again, loud and insistent. I stood on my tiptoes and looked down. Dolly’s scalp showed through her hair quite dramatically from this angle.

  “Oh, Jesus, it’s my father’s girlfriend,” I whispered into the phone.

  “Do you want to call me back?”

  There was probably no way to avoid answering the door. I could picture Dolly still knocking the next morning. Maybe that’s what my father meant about her not being squirrelly. “No, stay on the line. I’ll pretend it’s an important phone call and get rid of her fast.”

  “That’s a pretty big stretch.” John’s voice was tight.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Wait one second, okay?” I opened the door and took a couple of quick steps back. “Hi, Dolly. Did you get the boa?”

  “Where is he?” Dolly was dressed in a full-length satiny mauve down coat, the big puffy kind with stitched rectangles holding the feathers in place. I wondered if it would have been a jacket on a taller person. Her Ford Fiesta was idling angrily in my driveway. I hoped it meant that this would be a quick visit.

  “Where is who?”

  “That no-good alley cat of a father of yours. Where is he?”

  “Dad?”

  “Don’t be cute with me, missy. Of course I mean ‘Dad.’” Later I would tell John how much Dolly looked like Clementine, the Yorkie he had borrowed, and how I wanted to sink down to the floor and bury my head between my paws just like Mother Teresa had.

  “I don’t have any idea where he is. Did you try him at home?”

  A muffled voice came from the phone in my hand. “Is that him?” Dolly grabbed the phone from my hand. “Billy Hurlihy, you no-good, two-timing son of a gun.” She paused, listening. “Well, how was I supposed to know? She’ll have to call you back when things aren’t so busy around here.” Dolly pushed a button on the cordless. Her eyes were like chunks of watery ice.

  Dolly handed me my phone. “Find him. Now.”

  *

  While Dolly turned off her car, I dialed my father’s number. I could almost see him, tilted back in the re- cliner we all called Dad’s, looking at the phone and not answering. His machine picked up. Frank Sinatra crooned about his regrets being too few to mention. The music faded and my father, sounding more like Dean Martin than Frank, said, What’s tickin’, chicken? Billy Boy’s not home right now, so don’t bother to beat your gums off time. Just plant your message and I’ll dig it later.

  The beep was long and loud. “Hi, Dad, it’s Sarah. It’s, um, nine seventeen Friday night and Dolly’s here. At my house. And, um, she wants me to find you. So pick up the phone, Dad.” My voice hit an unexpected high note. I cleared my throat and continued. “Come on, Dad, answer the phone.” I forced myself to look at Dolly, who was standing across from me again. “He’s a very heavy sleeper. Always has been.”

  “Tell me another while that one’s still warm. Listen, you just inform that good-for-nothin’, low-life father of yours that Dolly’s staying right here until Daddy comes to pick her up.” She released a short puff of breath through pursed lips, and then Dolly took off her coat and hung it over the back of my couch. She crossed her arms over her torpedo-like breasts defiantly, then nodded at me to continue.

  “Uh, Dad, Dolly says she’s planning to stay here until you come to get her. Dad, if you can hear me, PICK UP RIGHT NOW.” I waited. This is the last girlfriend of his I will ever meet, I vowed. “Dolly,” I said, “how about if I keep trying to call my father and, in the meantime, you drive over to the house. If he’s not there, you can always come back. I’ll make tea.” I tried to smile convincingly. If I could just get her out the door again, I could lock it and turn out all the lights. Maybe go into my room and hide under the covers for the rest of my life. I mean, it’s not like I’d be missing all that much.

  “I have news for you, missy. Dolly does not chase men. Never has, never will. I’m going to sit right here until Daddy comes to get me. No ifs, ands or buts.” Dolly walked around to the front of the couch and plopped herself down.

  I was still holding the phone to my ear, even though my father’s answering machine had long since beeped the end of my message. It was hard to know quite what to do next. I took a deep breath, put the receiver down and thought, Sarah, you are a grown-up. “Dolly, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay. I mean it. This is my house and I want you to leave right now.” I waited for her to say something, maybe even to stand up. “I go to bed really early and it’s been a long week. Dolly?” I walked around the couch and looked her straight in the eyes.

  Dolly looked straight back. “So, go to bed already. Those circles under your eyes aren’t doing the rest of your looks much good at all. Da
ddy and I will lock up when we leave.”

  I dug deep. “No, I really mean it.” Pitiful. I dug deeper. “You cannot wait for my father here.” I caught myself before I softened it with an apology.

  Calmly, Dolly reached for her pocketbook, which looked like a small wicker picnic basket. A scrimshaw oval on top of it read DOLLY. She flipped the latch and reached inside. I was half-expecting her to pull out a gun, maybe a small pearl-handled affair that doubled as a cigarette lighter. I could even feel my heart picking up its pace in anticipation. Instead, Dolly removed a small clear plastic pouch. I watched her shake out what looked like a rain hat, only made of white netting instead of plastic. She draped it over her hair and tied it in a perky bow under her chin. I must have been staring, because she said, “You should try one of these. It’ll save your hairdo for an entire extra week.” I nodded. Found myself reaching up to smooth my hair.

  Meanwhile, Dolly kicked off her shoes, pulled off her knee-high nylons, wiggled her toes. Fluffed up two of the pillows from my couch, slid her puffy coat off the back and drew it over her like a blanket. “You run along now. Don’t worry about me. Dolly will be just fine.”

  Maybe the direct approach wasn’t going to work. I would pretend to be docile — not a big stretch — and come up with something when she least expected it. I tiptoed into my kitchen, grabbed the remnants of a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and the cordless phone. Tiptoed on into my room, closed and locked the door behind me.

  Chapter 14

  “Carol,” I whispered when Carol’s answering machine instructed me to please leave a message. “Answer the phone if you’re there. Come on, Carol, it’s an emergency.” I waited for a minute, then hung up softly.

  I tried Christine. Four rings and then her machine picked up. “Christine ….” I whispered. “It’s me, Sarah. Pick up. Please.” Great. A pattern seemed to be emerging. Why, the rest of the world actually went out on Friday nights.

  Michael answered on the second ring. “Mother Teresa! Drop it! It’s not a toy! Phoebe, will you get her so I can answer this? Phoebe …. Hello.”

  “Michael, it’s Sarah.”

  “Is something wrong with your voice? I can hardly hear you.”

  “I’m whispering. Dolly’s here. In the other room.”

  “Who?”

  “Dolly. Dad’s girlfriend. She’s trying to find Dad and Dad isn’t answering his phone. And now she says she won’t leave my couch until he comes to get her.”

  “Bummer. Guess you’ve got your night cut out for you.”

  “Michael! Listen, you’ve got to help me. Go get Dad and bring him over here.” I was sitting on the edge of my bed, talking as softly as I could.

  “Jesus, Sarah. I’m exhausted.”

  “Come on, Michael. You’re my favorite brother.”

  “Yeah, right. I haven’t fallen for that one since I was about six and found out you were using the same line on Billy Jr. and Johnny, too.” Michael paused. I waited him out. “Oh, all right. I have to take Mother Teresa out again anyway.” I heard a bark in the background as Mother Teresa recognized her name. “Shh. Oh, God, I better go before she wakes the kids. You don’t want a slightly used dog, do you, Sarah? Listen, I’ll walk her and then go over to Dad’s. In the meantime, why don’t you just ask Dolly to leave?”

  “Now why didn’t I think of that….” I whispered sarcastically, but Michael had already hung up. I pushed the off button on my cordless, thought for a minute, then dialed my father’s number again. When Frank Sinatra started to belt it out, I joined in with a few regrets of my own. Frank’s cheery attitude was really starting to piss me off. My father, instructing me to plant my message, was getting on my nerves, too. I whispered, “Dad, Dolly is on my couch and I’m in my bedroom. She won’t know if you pick up. So, Dad, PICK UP THE PHONE RIGHT NOW. Dad, I mean it. Get her out of my house. Now.” I thought about telling him that Michael was on his way over, but decided not to tip him off.

  And then it occurred to me: what if my father wasn’t home? I thought about this for a minute. What if he’d run off with another woman? I wondered how long an unsquirrelly woman like Dolly would stay camped on my couch, and if I’d be responsible for feeding her. I kind of admired her, in a way, from a safe distance, and considered trying to pretend she was giving me a lesson in assertiveness training. I reached for the bottle of wine. I noticed that I had neglected to bring a wineglass into my bedroom. I looked around for strays. Nothing. I pulled out the cork and took a long slug from the bottle.

  Even with the wine for company, there wasn’t much to do. I tried calling John back but he didn’t answer. I hoped he didn’t think I’d hung up on him on purpose. The television was in the other room with Dolly. The book I was reading was in the kitchen and I didn’t want to risk disturbing her by leaving my bedroom to go get it. I tried thinking about my life. I knew for certain I didn’t want to spend the rest of it alone in my house, where the only company I’d had in eons, besides the Bradys, was my father’s crazed girlfriend.

  Beyond that, things got a little foggy. I’d spent so much time scrunching my eyes shut, trying to stay numb, telling myself, Well, this isn’t so bad, that I’d all but forgotten any other way to behave. As painful as it was to think about having to open myself up and actually feel again, I couldn’t think of any graceful way around it. Maybe I could try to think of dating as an adventure.

  I looked at the tape deck. The tape Carol had made was still in it. I let that realization flop around for a few minutes. I thought about John Anderson, wondered if he was already planning his next singles soiree, if he’d stay for the whole thing this time, how long it would be before he met someone else. I wondered how I felt about that. Should I attempt a similar approach, maybe try a few more dates myself? I took a sip of wine. Just a small one in case I had to make it last all night. Watched the tape deck for a while longer. Okay. Just one more, I decided.

  Ten twenty-seven p.m. October 26, the ad began. That was almost a month ago, the guy could be married by now. Um, my name is George. I’m forty-four years old. Five eleven with brown hair and brown eyes. A non- smoker. I’m the divorced father of two great kids. You didn’t mention kids in your ad so I hope that doesn’t scare you off. They’re really good kids, though, and they live with me in Hanover. I’m college-educated, gainfully employed and in reasonably good shape. If you’d like to give me a call, it’s area code 781-555-8236. The best time to call is after eight o’clock in the evenings when the kids are in bed.

  I looked at the clock. Ten past nine. What the hell.

  *

  Of course, my life being my life, even George from Hanover wasn’t home. Some father he was. Before I thought about how desperate it would make me sound, I left a short message. Hi. My name is Sarah. You answered my personal ad about a month ago. Well, it’s Friday night and you’re not home, so it could be that mine wasn’t the only one you answered. But just in case you’re having a lousy date right now, my number is 781-555-7773. I’ll probably be up late.

  It seems that when it’s Friday night and you’re locked alone in your bedroom, listening to just one personal ad response is not all that different from eating potato chips. Okay, just one more, I decided. Nine-nineteen p.m. October 19. This response was even older than George from Hanover’s. Hi. My name is Maxwell. I’m forty-nine years old. I realize that’s the upper end of your range, but be assured that I’m distinguished-looking and financially secure. People tell me I look a little like Ernest Hemingway, in part because I have gray hair and a beard, I would assume, but also because I am a true adventurer. Interestingly enough, my personal ad box number is one higher than yours — 185. That’s 991185 to your 991184. Kismet? Karma? Destiny? Fate? Call me at 508-555-3030 and let’s find out.

  I wasn’t surprised when Maxwell’s machine picked up. How could it be otherwise? “So, Maxwell,” I said. “Is your resemblance to Hemingway still running?”

  I waited a long beat. “Well, you’d better hurry up and catch it!�
�� I hung up quickly, then laughed uproariously into my pillow. The tears wouldn’t stop. Either it was all just so damn funny, or I was spending too much time with the kids at school. Austin Connor had told that old joke the other day at circle time. Except he said it the traditional way — Is your refrigerator running? Anyway, the kids all laughed. Kids always know when to laugh. Maybe instead of trying to date, I should just baby-sit on the weekends.

  Thinking about Austin made me think about his father. I felt this little kick in the center of my chest. I pictured him in a crisply laundered shirt, with his wayward curls and twisted-tooth grin. Impulsively, I called information and got his number. Looked at the clock. Nine forty-eight. Called him anyway.

  When Austin’s dad answered, I said, “Sorry to bother you so late, but do you happen to know if all three of Dolly’s ex-husbands died and, if so, was it of natural causes?”

  “Who is this?” Bob Connor sounded as if he had been sleeping. Maybe he was just otherwise occupied in bed. It had been so long since I’d heard the voice of a man in bed, it was hard to tell.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. It’s Ms. Hurlihy, I mean Sarah Hurlihy. And I’m in the middle of a crisis. Well, a small crisis. It involves one of your neighbors.”

  “Dolly?”

  “Yeah, Dolly. You see, I can’t seem to get her to leave my house, and I was thinking you might be able to tell me if she’s potentially dangerous.”

  “You wanna back up and tell me the whole story?”

  So I curled up on my unmade bed, pulling the comforter over the tangled sheets and blankets until it covered my legs, and whispered the whole story to Bob Connor. When I finished, he said, “Rumor has it that all three of Dolly’s husbands are buried somewhere in the trailer park.”

  “That’s not funny!”

  “Sorry. Let me think, what can I do? How about if I come over and convince her to leave?”

  “How?”

  “I could tell her there’s a meeting of the tenants’ association or something. It’s a bit late, and we don’t exactly have a tenants’ association, but it could work…Or I could just keep you company until your father shows up.”