Must Love Dogs

by Claire Cook

  “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 19

  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 tables, 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 Jennif
er. 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.”

  “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 20

  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. Naragansett 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 ex
act 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.

  “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 baby-sitting 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.”