by Wendy Wax
“Okay,” said Dawg. “I’ll let you get on with things. But don’t be so sure this’ll never happen to you, Ransom. It seems like sometimes love just sort of tiptoes up and bushwhacks you from behind. And then nothing is ever the same again.”
15
On Friday morning Olivia faced an uncontestable truth: Being thirty sucked. It was her birthday and although she’d only been awake for five and a half minutes, the added year was already taking its toll.
Too old and too tired to get out of bed, Olivia stretched her sheep-clad arms up above her head, kicked the rumpled bedsheets out of the way, and contemplated the ceiling. It was made of the popcorned plaster common in condos and apartments, and it had absolutely nothing going for it. She felt a strange sort of kinship with the pimply slab of concrete and an awful sort of lethargy that she wished she could indulge.
In the bathroom, Olivia searched through her cosmetics bag until she came up with an ancient sample tube of anti-wrinkle cream. After smearing it liberally around her eyes, she faced herself in the mirror and attempted a smile. She still had all her teeth, but the longer she looked, the more pronounced the signs of her advanced age became.
Shimmying out of her pajamas, Olivia squeezed her eyes shut to avoid discovering any suddenly sagging body parts or newly bulging varicose veins, and stepped under the stream of hot water, keeping her back to the mirror while she lathered and rinsed.
Clean, but still thirty, she slipped into her clothes and headed out to the kitchen for the cup of coffee that she prayed would help put things back into perspective. Within minutes, she’d parked herself in front of the computer, coffee mug in hand. Diane’s birthday wishes awaited her on the computer screen.
Thanks, Olivia typed, unable to summon a more profound or lengthy response.
Diane gave her the vote count. Once again, donations and votes were relatively even. Olivia sensed it would take something major to obtain a real lead, but she refused to think about the consultant and his endless questions. Being thirty was bad enough.
The spaghetti looked pretty good last night, Diane typed. I’m putting on pounds just watching you and Matt eat.
Olivia replied, When I get out of here we’ll try hypnosis. But I’m too old to think about food today.
Diane’s next missive read, You’re only as old as you feel.
Olivia sipped at her coffee. Then I must have turned a hundred and two.
You don’t sound so good. Should I wake up Matt? Olivia could almost hear Diane’s concern in the words she typed.
NO! Olivia typed. I’m planning to check out retirement communities as soon as I get off the air. Until then, I’d prefer to do my show in peace.
Okay.
You haven’t told anyone it’s my thirtieth birthday, have you?
There was the computer equivalent of dead silence while Olivia waited for the reassuring words to appear.
Diane, she typed. Tell me you haven’t said anything to . . .
The doorbell and the phone rang simultaneously. With only ten minutes until air, Olivia picked up the cordless phone, brought the receiver to her ear, and moved toward the front door.
“Olivia, it’s Charles.”
She braced herself.
“Crankower,” he said, as if there were another. “I just wanted you to know that I—”
“Hold on, Charles. There’s someone at the door. I assume I’m allowed to open it?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
Olivia turned the key in the dead bolt and pulled open the front door, an act that made her feel immeasurably better. Until she saw what awaited her.
The deliveryman looked like a bit player from The Sopranos . His wiry arms cradled a bulging floral arrangement, and a cloud of black balloons floated above his head.
“Got a delivery for one Dr. Olive Moore.”
“That’s Olivia.”
“Whatever. Can I bring this stuff in?”
“I guess so.” She stepped back to let him in and had an alarming thought. “You haven’t been paid to take off your clothes or anything, have you?”
He looked at her as if she were deranged. “Look, lady, I just want to put this stuff down. You want me to take my clothes off, you’ll have to call my supervisor.”
Olivia lifted the phone to her ear. “Charles, what’s going on here?”
“It’s your thirtieth birthday, Olivia. The station wants to help you celebrate it.”
The deliveryman continued to eye her as if she were exactly the sort of woman who might force him to perform an unauthorized striptease and then call his office to complain. “I’ve got a few more things down near the elevator. Can you hold the door?”
At her nod, he slid carefully around her and walked down the hall, leaving her with the phone and less than five minutes to air. She contemplated the hallway longingly.
“Charles. This is ridiculous. I don’t want . . .”
The delivery guy came back with more flowers, a cane with a rearview mirror and horn attached, and two cardboard boxes with Matt’s name on them. He eyed her as she stood in the doorway. “I got some other stuff to do in here. You wanna close the door?”
Olivia let the door slam behind her. “Charles. I need to go on the air. You have to put a stop to this right now.”
“Sorry, Olivia, can’t do it. Everything’s already in motion. Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Charles, I am not willing to—”
“There’s lots of interest in the story of you turning thirty, so we’ll be feeding a ton of video off the Webcam today.”
“Now, there’s some good news. Charles, I—”
“Gotta go, Olivia. Have a great day.”
She spent her last minutes before air watching the deliveryman decorate the apartment. He crisscrossed the room hanging black crepe paper and anchoring bunches of black balloons to chair backs while she watched with growing dismay.
When he started taping an “Over the Hill” banner to the wall, she wanted to go back to her room and crawl under the covers. Instead, she fielded her first call.
“This is Liv Live. In case there’s anyone who hasn’t figured it out, today is my thirtieth birthday. Hi, Wanda. You’re on the air.”
“Happy birthday, Dr. O. Hope it’s a great one.”
Wanda sounded about twelve, which was probably why she still thought birthdays were something to cheer about. Olivia tried not to hold it against her, but caught herself listening with only half an ear as she watched the deliveryman/decorator pack up and depart.
So far, the one bright spot was Matt Ransom’s absence. And though her gaze strayed to his closed bedroom door more times than she cared to count, she told herself she was relieved when he didn’t put in an appearance.
Drawing the conversation with Wanda to a close, Olivia moved on. “JoBeth. Has your Dawg learned to heel yet?”
“No, Dr. O. In fact, the last time I saw him, another woman had her paws all over him.”
“How’d that go?”
“I told her she was welcome to the hound, and left. But I felt like rubbing both their noses in some serious—”
“Yeah,” Olivia interrupted. “I know just what you mean.”
“Really, Dr. O?”
“Really. I know it’s hard, JoBeth, but you’re doing all the right things. You’ve taken control of your life, and you’re prepared to move on if you have to. But, you know, I heard your Dawg on the air with Matt last night, and I’m starting to wonder if you might not be able to teach him some new tricks.”
“I don’t know, Dr. Olivia. It doesn’t look like he’s going to roll over and play dead anytime soon. And I sure don’t intend to sit up and beg.”
Olivia smiled her first real smile of the day. Evidently even old people could still see the humor in things. “Well, JoBeth, if we continue the obedience metaphor, we could say that the rolled-up newspaper made an impression. Now you have to decide whether to give him something to wag his tail about or get out the choke
collar.”
“Oh.”
“You know, a kind of Milk-Bones-versus-the-electronic-fence decision. You’ve got lots of options, JoBeth, you just need to take the time to sort through them.”
“Uh, okay, Dr. O, thanks. And happy birthday, you hear?”
“Thanks, JoBeth. Keep me posted. Who knows, maybe that Dawg can find his way back home.”
She segued into a commercial break with, “Don’t forget to call in your food pledges. This is Liv Live, reminding you to live your life . . . live.”
Olivia shut off her microphone and stretched her arms over her head to work the kinks out. She stood and strolled over to the kitchen, then turned and walked back to stare out the balcony doors. Outside, a woman and young girl walked hand in hand toward the playground in the tiny park across the road. White dogwoods flowered along the sidewalk, and pale yellow roses twined through the arched park gate. Olivia longed to be out there with them, her own hair stirring in the gentle spring breeze.
She was thirty, and she was locked in a very small apartment with Matt Ransom. Somehow both truths loomed ominously over her, unavoidable and inescapable. Turning, she headed back to the audio console and took her seat just before the commercial break ended.
“This is Liv Live, the thirtieth-birthday edition. We’ve heard from JoBeth, who’s still trying to work things out with her Dawg, and I’m up for another challenge. Give me a call and tell me what’s on your mind. I’ll talk about anything as long as I don’t have to think about how old I am.”
Glancing down at the computer screen, Olivia read the words “dinner,” “birthday,” and “sorry.” With no time to get more information, Olivia took the call. Despite the written warnings, Matt’s voice took her by surprise.
“Happy birthday, Livvy.”
Her gaze swung to his bedroom door, but it remained closed. Olivia sat back in her chair, folded her arms across her chest, and instructed herself to remain calm. “Hello, Matt. How good of you to call.”
“My pleasure.”
“Okay.” She kept her voice even and professional, unwilling to let anyone know how completely he rattled her. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Why, you are, of course.”
Olivia blinked.
“Getting older can be tough, especially for a woman.”
“And you’re calling to . . . console me?”
“I’m calling because I have a birthday present for you, and I figure you’re more likely to accept it with your listeners listening in.”
“And what kind of gift are we talking about?”
“A birthday dinner. In honor of your being so old and all.”
“What an attractive offer. Any chance we’d be dining out?”
“Nope.”
“Then I don’t think I’m interested.”
He chuckled with maddening good humor. “See, this is where calling in to your show really pays off.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I know you won’t want your listeners to think you’re afraid to have a birthday meal with me.”
“We’ve been alone for four days now and shared several meals together. Why should I be afraid today?”
She could practically hear his shrug. “Because you’re older now, more mature? Possibly more . . . desperate?” He paused and she could picture his dimple cutting a groove into his cheek. “And you’ve never had my duck à la Ransom. It drives women wild.”
“You’re driving me wild now, Matt. With annoyance. But I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not that old.”
“Good. It’s a date, then. We’ll have drinks earlier and dinner at eight. I assume you don’t need directions.”
16
Dawg Rollins pushed open the door of the Magnolia Diner and stepped inside. At 5:00 P.M., the place bulged with early birds wolfing down enough fried food to clog the arteries of every man, woman, and child in Georgia. Standing in the entrance, he breathed in the familiar smells of down-home cooking and scanned the restaurant for JoBeth.
“Hey, Dawg.” Noreen Pitts, who’d been waitressing longer than he’d been alive, tucked a pencil behind her ear and a stray gray curl back into its bun. “Counter or booth?”
“Put me back in JoBeth’s section, Noreen.”
“I don’t know, Dawg. Ina made chocolate meringue pie for dessert tonight. That’s almost impossible to get out of your clothes.”
“I’m willing to risk it. Just give me that booth in the corner there, okay?”
He moved forward with determination, dragging the small gray-haired woman along in his wake until they reached the booth he’d requested. When she didn’t move, he lifted a menu out of her hands, sat down on the seat, and slid his rear end across the red vinyl bench.
“Thanks, Noreen. I appreciate it.”
“I hope you feel that way when JoBeth gets finished with you.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that girl, but she sure has taken to speaking her mind.”
“Hasn’t she though?”
JoBeth had never been what you’d call a shrinking violet, but she’d never been the kind of woman to throw a pie in a man’s face, either. Even when her parents’ illnesses and demands had dragged down on her, she’d been upbeat, always trying to look on the bright side of things.
He took a minute to read over the menu, though he’d eaten at the Magnolia a thousand times. When he looked up, JoBeth stood in front of his table with her order pad out and her professional smile in place. Her normally warm gray eyes looked a bit on the frosty side.
“What can I get for you?”
“All I really want is some conversation, JoBeth.”
“You can’t tie up a table talking.” She nodded over her shoulder toward the entrance, where several customers milled around. “People are lined up waiting to get seated.”
“I just wanted to tell you about the thing with Emmylou. You see I was only trying to—”
“It’s no concern of mine who you spend your time with or why. Order or give up the table, Dawg.”
“All right, then. I’ll start with a glass of sweet tea.”
“And?” Her pencil still poised above her pad, JoBeth waited expectantly.
“You told me I had to order, so I ordered. Is there a minimum?” He sent her an innocent look.
She tucked the pencil back behind her ear and reached for his menu, but he refused to give it up.
“I think I’ll hold on to this. I’m going to be here awhile and I may want to order something else.”
“Fine.” She turned and strode the few steps to the nearest station, grabbed up a pitcher, and returned to pour him the tea.
Dawg watched her pour the amber-colored liquid. “You know, now that I think of it, maybe I will have a little something to eat. What do you have on special today?”
JoBeth’s lips pressed together in an impossibly thin line, and Dawg wondered how she’d squeeze the words out from between them. “We have fried chicken, country fried steak, and liver and onions. They all come with mashed potatoes and gravy plus your choice of two vegetables.”
JoBeth slipped her pencil back out from behind her ear and held it poised above her pad. “What’ll it be?”
“I guess I’ll have a small house salad to start. Oh, and some corn bread. I may order a meal a little later.”
“Fine.” JoBeth turned on her heel and left. He watched her work her tables, taking full advantage of the chance to observe her in action. She was small and compact with lots of interesting curves that he’d spent long hours exploring. He watched her flash her sassy smile at the elderly McCauleys and heard her laughter float back across the diner as she took someone else’s order. She had so much life and enthusiasm—but evidently no desire to share either with him at the moment.
Dawg took a long sip of his tea and reflected that his whole life had turned damned empty since she’d moved out. There wasn’t a thing he could think of that felt the same.
JoBe
th placed his salad in front of him and slid the basket of corn bread onto the middle of the table. A bowl of butter pats clattered next to it. In a minute she’d be gone.
“Nicky and the other boys all asked me to say hello to you,” he got out in a rush.
“Oh.” She’d already turned to leave, but stopped at the mention of the inner-city baseball team he coached. “Did you have practice?”
“Yeah. We had the batting cage for an hour and then we played a practice game against Ron Parker’s team yesterday afternoon.”
“How’d that turn out?”
“They creamed us. Stomped us into the dirt.”
JoBeth smiled. The fact that she so obviously didn’t want to made it that much sweeter. “Did Jamal get a hit?”
“Almost. I just can’t convince the kid to swing unless the pitch is exactly where he wants it.”
She smiled again and her eyes warmed by several degrees. “Bet he’s sorry his coach played for the Falcons instead of the Braves. Did you take that knee pad I bought you so you could get down into his strike zone?”
Dawg congratulated himself on finding the one topic guaranteed to snag JoBeth’s interest. As unofficial team mom and number one fan, JoBeth had rarely missed a Fuller Park Tornadoes game.
“The boy has about a one-foot strike zone. He’s like you, JoBeth, small and scrappy. I like that in a woman.”
“Hmmph. You didn’t seem to have a problem with big and blonde the other night.” The thawing process screeched to a halt and JoBeth whirled to leave.
Dawg’s knees might have been shot, but there was nothing wrong with his reflexes. His hand snaked out to wrap around her wrist and twirl her back to face him. “You know I was only trying to make you jealous.”
She cocked her head and waited for him to continue.
“Of course, I know you didn’t fall for it. You did leave both of us alive.”
JoBeth tapped a foot in a sign of impatience, but he knew he had her full attention.
“Aw hell, JoBeth. I’m not interested in Emmylou or anyone else. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Hmmph,” was all she said, but he could tell she was pleased. She snatched her hand away and headed for a nearby table, but her movements were noticeably looser and her shoulders didn’t seem so stiff.
