Did she dare leave them alone down there? she wondered as she showered. She had, so what was the point in thinking about it? Should she keep one of them? But which one? None, she said to herself over and over. You’ll be working, and it isn’t fair to leave a dog alone all day. Take them back. Later, when you’re really settled, you can think about getting a pet.
She was still arguing with herself as she dressed and applied a light coat of powder and eye shadow. Her lipstick was coral, highlighting what was left of her summer tan. She pulled her hair back into a skintight bun. The severe white porcelain earrings nestling on her lobes again called attention to her honeyed tan. The beige-and-white striped seersucker suit with the pencil-slim skirt was both attractive and professional-looking. The beige heels added two inches to her five-foot-eight. She felt successful when she descended the stairs with her beige shoulder bag. She checked to make sure she had the recommendation letter from her former boss, Aaron Stephens. Maybe, just maybe, it would help. She crossed her fingers and made a silent wish.
In the kitchen, Jory removed the barricade and let the pups out the back door. As one they tumbled down the four steps to the lawn, yipping and howling as they did so. They were like a miniature herd, brushing against one another as they romped and chewed at one another’s ears and tails. As one they sat down and stared at her, perfect little statues waiting for what was to come next.
“Pee,” Jory said sternly. “Come on now,” she said, motioning with her hand, “do it.” The pup with the red string yipped as he turned a somersault. The pup with the green string sat on top of him, while the one with the yellow string industriously chewed at his left ear. She waited a full five minutes, and then five more minutes. Exhausted, the dogs lay down and went to sleep. Jory carried them back to the house. The barricade went back up and a thick layer of newspapers went down all over the kitchen floor. She checked to make sure the water bowl was full before she left. The word “disaster” stayed in her mind on the drive to town.
The pups were still on her mind when Jory filled out the newspaper’s employment application at eight-fifteen. She handed the letter of recommendation to the middle-aged personnel director, who read it immediately. The woman’s voice was regretful when she said, “You’re overqualified for the one available opening. I can keep your application, and if anything opens up I’ll call you.”
Why had she thought this was going to be a snap? She felt like crying. “I’d appreciate that,” Jory said.
“Are you related to Jake Ryan? The resemblance is there,” the woman said.
“He was my father. Well, thank you for your time.”
“Wait. I don’t know if this will interest you, but we’re . . . this is going to sound peculiar, but hear me out. We’re interviewing for Auntie Ann. It’s an advice column. What we’re doing is giving out five sample letter problems and asking our interviewees to respond. It’s a job that can be done at home or here in the office. So far we’ve had three other applicants, all of them men. The identity of Auntie Ann will remain secret, and the name belongs to the paper. We’re going to run the column one day a week. If it’s successful, we’ll go to three times a week, and if it goes over with a bang, it will be daily. Would you be interested in giving it a try?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I would.” A job was a job.
“Here’s the packet,” the woman said, holding out a manila envelope. “The guidelines are clear. We’ve done a mock-up of how we want the column to look. The space requirements are set up, but that’s all subject to change with the popularity of the column. I’ll need your response a week from today. I’ve attached a copy of the pay scale along with some background on the paper. It will take us several days, perhaps as long as a week, to make our decision once you’ve turned in your column. Good luck.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Jory said breathlessly.
Outside in the hall, Jory literally swooned. An advice columnist. She could work at home if she wanted to. Providing she got the job. That meant she could keep one of the puppies. “Thank you, Lord,” she sighed happily.
It took Jory fifteen minutes to find the classified office, where she placed her ad to rent the carriage house. She paid three dollars and told them to run the ad for a full week. She was told the ad would run in the next day’s paper. While she waited for her change, Jory watched two young girls at back-to-back desks leaf through a tabloid. Even from this distance she could read the headlines. NAME THE STARLET WITH ROUND HEELS. She dropped the two one-dollar bills on the floor when she saw the banner at the top of the paper. TIF. Surely this wasn’t her in-laws’ magazine. She craned her neck for a better look. Jory stumbled over her own feet in her hurry to leave the building. She had to buy a copy and see for herself. If what she saw was the Landerses’ publication, it mean her soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law allowed . . . Not Jasper, not warm, wonderful Jasper. He wouldn’t allow his family’s magazine to take such a turn. And Ross . . . was he part of this? She felt sick as she hurried down the street in search of a newsstand.
Jory’s eyes searched the rows of sleazy magazines for the one she was looking for. Her throat constricted when she saw what was once a respectable magazine. She handed the man behind the counter a dollar bill and bought five magazines. She folded them in a bunch and stuck them under her arm. Why she was buying them, she didn’t know.
Was it possible the Landers family had fallen on hard times? Sleazy, steamy, sewer journalism sold. On the plane from Florida she saw both men and women reading the cheap-looking papers. When she herself had picked up a copy of the Sun Sentinel, she’d seen harried mothers, men dressed in three-piece business suits, and young giggly girls buying the papers, and not just one, but every paper on the rack. At the time she’d been mystified. Her old boss had told her it was a craze the public went through from time to time. He said it was an insatiable thirst for back-alley gossip, and no reputable publisher or journalist would work for such a publication. She’d figured that out on her own after their discussion. The only people who benefited from this type of publication were the owners, who probably laughed their way to the bank.
Jory retraced her steps to the parking lot. The Rambler purred to life, and she was back home at ten-fifteen. Total, absolute chaos greeted her. The moment the busy pups heard her steps on the back porch, they clustered into a tight ball. Jory thought they looked guilty. A sea of shredded newspaper was everywhere. Obviously, all four of them had the splats, and a second bath was called for. There was no way she could walk through the mess in the kitchen in her good clothes. She forgot about her new assignment and her in-laws’ magazine as she raced around to the front of the house to enter by the red door. She was back in the kitchen ten minutes later trying to untangle the four dogs from their colored strings. “Not a good idea,” she muttered as she took them into the laundry room, one by one, and scrubbed them down. While they dried, she cleaned the kitchen. At one o’clock she had new strings around their necks. They were going home clean and they were going to walk.
Halfway to the Reynolds house it occurred to Jory that if she didn’t get the job, she’d have to return the dog. Better not get attached, she told herself.
As one, the puppies balked when she tried to lead them up the Reynolds driveway. Frustrated, Jory looped the four lengths of yarn into one string and tied it to a forsythia branch. “Wait here and don’t get into trouble,” she said sternly. She wagged her finger for emphasis.
The kids saw her first and whooped with delight, demanding to know how the dogs were. Mrs. Reynolds, a baby on her hip, was warming a bottle on the stove. The baby was screeching, his small fists tugging at his mother’s hair. Four of the remaining puppies were racing back and forth across the kitchen floor, their mother barking shrilly. The kids, ages probably three and four, had peanut butter and jelly smeared all over their faces. The dogs yipped and cavorted as they too tried to lick one another. The baby continued to shriek.
“Mrs. Reynolds, I’m Marjory Ryan,” Jory said, shou
ting to be heard over the din. “I brought the puppies back.”
“You did what?” the woman said, collapsing into the kitchen chair. The pups tried to crawl up her leg. She jammed the bottle into the screaming baby’s mouth. Jory thought she’d never seen a more frazzled person in her life.
“I brought the dogs back. I told your husband I didn’t think I could keep them.”
“Then why did you take them? You can’t bring them back. My God, you just can’t,” the woman said, tears filling her eyes. The baby yanked the bottle from its mouth and sent it sailing across the room. The four pups pounced on it immediately. The baby wailed, the mother cried, the kids threw the last of their sandwiches at the dogs. The screen door banged. The three-year-old caught his foot in the door and started to howl. “I can’t take any more of this,” the woman sobbed.
“I can’t either,” Jory said. She thought about her nice clean house, the peace and quiet. She threw her hands in the air. “I guess I can put them in the garage. Will that be all right?”
“No, it’s not all right. You shouldn’t have taken them if you didn’t want them. You’ll have to take them to the pound yourself. I don’t have the time and I . . . I can’t be responsible for . . . putting them to sleep,” the woman sobbed.
“But I told your husband—”
“I don’t care. Do you see my husband here? No. He works. I stay home and take care of this . . . this menagerie. This child is sick, he should be seen by a doctor. I’m waiting for him to make a house call. I have to pick up the kids from school. I have to think about making dinner. The dogs smell, they should be given a bath. I’m tired, I was up all night with this child. I have diapers to wash.” She cried again. The baby shrieked louder. “I think he has an ear infection, and I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
“Can I do something?” Jory asked weakly.
“That’s what my husband said last night when he told me to go out and play canasta with my friends. I fell asleep at the card table. That’s not help. I’m sorry I got married, sorry I’m not the woman my mother was. I just want to run away and never come back.”
“You don’t mean that,” Jory said, fidgeting with her hands.
“Right now, this very second I do. I can’t help you, Miss . . . what did you say your name was?”
“Jory. Jory Ryan.”
“Well, Jory Ryan, you are just going to have to cope like the rest of us. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to change this child, sterilize his bottles, and wash his diapers. Do the best you can. That’s what my husband tells me when he comes home from work.”
“But . . . the dogs—”
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Do whatever you have to do, just don’t tell me what that is, because I can’t . . . I don’t . . .”
“All right, Mrs. Reynolds. I hope the baby feels better.”
“He won’t, not for four days,” the woman said miserably.
Jory closed the screen door. One of the pups nipped at her heels while a second one pushed his head through the screen. In the front of the house the four-year-old was cracking eggs on the concrete driveway. “Do they really fry?” she asked curiously.
“Yeah. Want some?”
“No thanks.” The pups were right where she left them, lined up like four fat little soldiers. She untied the string and marched them home.
On the back steps, Jory cuddled them, marveling at the fast beat of their little hearts. Tiny pink tongues licked at her face. Such warm little bodies, such energy. She couldn’t be the one to snuff that out. Not now, not ever. Life was too wonderful, too precious. How hard could it be to take care of four puppies? She had an edge on Mrs. Reynolds, she had no children to contend with. Nothing could be harder than what she’d gone through five years ago when she left here. She’d had no one, she was sore and wounded, unloved and unhappy. She’d survived all of that. Maybe she was meant to be here, meant to take on these four warm little dogs, meant to keep them, to preserve their lives. “I believe in things like that, I really do,” she crooned to the animals, who were now asleep in her arms. “Nobody ever trusted me before,” she whispered. “No one has ever had to depend on me for their livelihood. You do your part and I’ll do mine,” she continued to whisper. The dog with the green string burrowed deeper into the crook of her arm. She smiled.
Marjory Ryan’s world was almost right-side up.
Jory woke from her doze when the four pups began to squirm. They leaped from her arms, tumbled to the ground. They looked at one another, squatted, and then eyed one another again before they raced across the lawn. Jory whistled. They stopped, looked back at her as though undecided what course to follow. The dog with the red string trotted toward her. She whistled again, and the other three fell into line. She praised them, laughter in her voice. The dogs reacted happily as they struggled with the steps.
The hours passed quickly once Jory made a call to the local veterinarian. She flushed with the vet’s warm praise for the awesome task she’d undertaken. She copied down his instructions and listened to his helpful hints. She sighed with relief when he promised to give her a discount for the dogs’ checkups. When she hung up the phone, she knew about designated sleep areas, designated food areas, designated “duty” areas, rolled-up newspapers, about tones of voice for displeasure and pleasure. She was ahead of the game, according to the vet, because the dogs had each other for company and wouldn’t depend on her to play and amuse them twenty-four hours a day. At nine o’clock when she sat down to read the material from the personnel director, she felt confident she’d established a routine. Of sorts.
Curled on the couch, she read the make-believe letters she was to respond to as Auntie Ann. An in-law problem, a cheating husband, a child out of wedlock, wife’s cooking versus mother’s cooking, and a man attracted to his next door neighbor’s wife. Jory’s eyebrows shot upward. “Like I really know about such things,” she muttered.
Common sense should do it. A lifetime of experience wouldn’t make a darn bit of difference. Each case was different, and what was best for her wouldn’t necessarily be best for someone else. She could be impartial. She had to be impartial.
She counted lines, inches of space, words, as she tried to visualize her answers in print. She wondered how many people would write to someone named Auntie Ann for advice. Would someone like Mrs. Reynolds write about her frazzled existence, and if she did, how should Auntie Ann respond? Now that, she decided, was one of her better ideas. If she really wanted this job, she could type up a sixth letter from a real person and write her response. Maybe that kind of initiative would land her the job. Sitting on the back steps with the dogs asleep in her lap convinced her of that. And if it got into print, she might be helping Mrs. Reynolds without her knowing it. She’d make it her business to see that Mrs. Reynolds received a copy of the paper.
Ah, life was looking better and better. If she could just stop dreaming about Ross Landers, she might have a chance at the brass ring.
“The past is prologue,” she said, struggling up from her cocoon. The pups hopped to attention, their tails swishing happily. Yipping and growling, they raced to the back door, where they skidded to a stop. Jory reached for the rolled-up newspaper. She gave the table a whack. Four pairs of eyes studied her. “I don’t expect instant obedience, but I do expect obedience. One at a time, gentlemen. Go!” She burst out laughing at the mad scramble through the open door.
Twenty minutes later Jory snapped off the lamp next to her bed, her roommates cuddled at the foot of her bed. “ ’Night, guys.” My God, she thought, when did I ever say that to anyone?
She had a routine now. She had a life, and she damn well had a purpose.
Jory felt at cross purposes with herself the following day as she worked and reworked her practice column. Auntie Ann was not going to be easy to please. Her wastebasket was testimony to the fact that it was indeed hard to be impartial, harder to write lean succinct sentences and still come across as having a heart full of advice.
She’d been at it since seven A.M., with brief breaks for lunch and to take the dogs out to play. Now it was time for the dogs’ dinner as well as her own. Before she started work, she’d cooked up a batch of chicken gizzards and livers for the dogs, which she mixed with kibble. The house reeked of the smell, and the dogs had been sniffing everything in sight for hours. She had to get the dogs on a better morning schedule. Four-fifteen was too early for her. She felt ready for bed, and it was only six o’clock.
Jory brushed a stray tendril of hair that worked its way free of the tight bun she’d started out with earlier in the day. Sticking pencils in her hair didn’t allow for the sleek look. Tousled, she thought, staring at her reflection in the chrome stove top. She threw her head back before she emptied the contents of the warming pan into a large yellow bowl. She was measuring the food into equal portions when the front doorbell ding-donged through the house. She almost jumped out of her sneakers. The dogs scurried between her legs. “A caller,” she said to the dogs. “Or someone to rent the carriage house. A real neighbor if that’s the case. Wait here,” she said, knowing it was probably the stupidest thing she would ever say to four bouncing puppies.
“A gentleman,” she whispered to the dogs. She smoothed back her hair, tugged at her blouse, and took a deep breath before she opened the door.
Jory recognized him instantly. He seemed to be having difficulty speaking. “I came about the . . . Jesus,” he said, trying to shake loose the four fur balls attacking both his legs.
“I’m sorry. I just . . . inherited them, and as yet they don’t have any manners.” He didn’t recognize her. But then why should he? What in the world was he doing here? He wanted to rent the carriage house. “We have to catch them. If we get them in the house, I can show you the carriage house. I assume you’re here about the ad.” The big man nodded as he tried to rescue one of the pups from the iron rail where he was stuck. The one with the green string was busy untying his shoelace. The two Jory was holding leaped from her arms, tumbling down the walkway. “You watch them, I’ll be right back,” Jory said, running into the house. She was back a moment later with the four dishes in her hands. “This might do it,” she sighed. “I really am sorry.”
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