My Boyfriends' Dogs

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  It was getting ridiculous. Went could have invented Band-Aids by now. I stood up, one shoe on and one shoe off, and looked in every direction.

  Then I spotted him. He was standing on the other side of the flowers, leaning against the wall of a noisy arcade. But he wasn’t alone. Went was laughing with Tweety Bird, or with the no-doubt hot girl who was dressed up as the theme park’s Tweety. The big yellow head made her as tall as Went, but there was no denying her tiny waist, in spite of the giant hands and feet. It would have been funny if I hadn’t known what was going on . . . if I hadn’t known Went.

  I fell back onto the park bench. Then I burst into tears. I cried and cried. I couldn’t stop crying. I covered my face in my hands, my elbows on my knees, and I sobbed. Every emotion came out with those tears—anger, hurt, pain, guilt, love. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to see children staring at me, happy people keeping their distance.

  When I finally emptied myself of every tear, I had to catch my breath in little pieces that jerked my shoulders. I needed Kleenex.

  And then a tissue appeared.

  Startled, I looked over to see Goofy sitting beside me. Just me and the lop-eared Goofy. He was staring straight ahead, not at me, but he held the tissue right under my nose.

  I took it and blew. Another tissue appeared. And another.

  “Thanks,” I managed, stuffing the used tissues into my pocket.

  He didn’t say anything.

  I glanced over at him. I’m not sure I’d realized before that moment that Goofy was supposed to be a dog—a goofy dog with no tail. His costume was pretty worn and patched. There was a round, grated opening below the dog’s snout. When I was a kid and discovered the park characters weren’t the real cartoon characters, I’d investigated every costumed star I could get close to. I’d figured out that the opening was where the person’s head went. I used to try to get Bugs and Sylvester and Taz to talk, but they never did. Mom said it was a Six Flags rule so characters wouldn’t say anything they shouldn’t. I never remembered seeing Goofy there, though. “So when did Goofy come to Six Flags?”

  He didn’t answer, of course.

  “I know you can’t talk,” I told Goofy. That made me sad enough that tears threatened again. Goofy handed me another tissue.

  I dabbed at my eyes. When I looked up, Goofy was leaning in front of me, his palms up and shoulders raised in the universal “What? What’s wrong?” gesture.

  I shook my head. “It’s a long story.”

  He leaned back on the bench and crossed one giant paw over the other as if he had all the time in the world.

  And so I gave him my story, the shortened version, about Went and me and why we’d come to St. Louis, and how I loved Went and I’d thought he loved me, but he kept talking up other girls and I didn’t know if he could ever be a one-woman man the way I was a one-man woman. I had to squeeze my eyes shut so I wouldn’t cry again.

  I felt Goofy’s big arm come around my shoulder, but I didn’t look at him. I soaked in the comfort of that caring, canine, furry arm around my shoulders. We sat like that for a couple of minutes, neither of us talking. I thought of Adam and the comfort dogs always gave me.

  Finally, I leaned forward until I could see Went, still talking to Tweety Bird. He was trying to peek through the grated hole of the costume. He was laughing and being Went. I pointed them out to Goofy. “There. That’s my boyfriend. My boyfriend is hitting on Tweety Bird. Tweety Bird! I was never even sure Tweety was a girl. And yet, there’s my boyfriend, hitting on Tweety.”

  I stood up and faced Goofy. “I am not the kind of girl who can share a boyfriend. And Went can’t be the kind of guy who doesn’t hit on other girls. I was just one of the girls to Went, even if he did like me best most of the time. But I’d never be the girl. I’d never be the only one for him. He might never have only one—that’s just Went.

  “But it isn’t me. And it isn’t enough.”

  Goofy leaped off the park bench, one fist raised high in the air.

  “I’m a gecko, Goofy! A Madagascar day gecko. When I mate, I’m mating for life!” I hugged the big, furry guy, and he hugged me back.

  “I’m going home.” I picked up my shoe and began hobbling toward the exit.

  Goofy jumped and waved with both hands. He blew me kisses.

  After a few yards, I turned back to see if Goofy was still there. He was there, watching, his hands, or paws, clasped in front of him.

  “Just so you know,” I shouted back, “I’ve always loved Goofy best!”

  ST. LOUIS—The Present

  I FINISH THE STORY, but when I smile across the table at Louie, I can tell he doesn’t think the story’s over.

  “How did you get home?” he asks.

  “Called my mom and had her come get me at the apartment. She was mad, but she’s my mom. We got over it.”

  Rune has listened the whole time from a stool by the counter. Now he storms across the room, pulls up the empty chair at our table, twirls it around, and sits backward. “I’d like to teach that guy, that Went, a lesson.” He makes a fist, and his tattoos—a hula girl and a snake—dance. “Give me two minutes alone with that loser.”

  “You never saw Went again?” Louie asks.

  “I saw him. That summer he came around, wanting to get back together with me.”

  Rune pounds the table. Shirley the Shih Tzu barks. Eve the Dalmatian trots over to check out this big, loud human. “The nerve of that guy!” Rune glares at me. “You didn’t do it, did you? You didn’t go back to that creep?”

  I shake my head. “Mom said that going back to an ex-boyfriend was like buying your own garage-sale junk after the sale’s over. Somebody else may think your old stuff is gold, but you know better. It’s not golden for you.”

  “I like your mother,” Louie says.

  “Yeah.” I grin at him. “She knows a lot about garage sales.”

  “But you kept the dog.” The cute guy, Colt, says it like a fact, not a question. Somewhere during my story, Adam ended up on Colt’s lap, where the dog is still sleeping peacefully, snoring even.

  “I couldn’t leave Adam in that apartment. It wasn’t hard to find the key behind the bush. Adam was ready to go. Nobody ever asked for the dog back. In the end, Went went, and Adam stayed.” I reach over and scratch Adam. He doesn’t stir.

  Louie sighs deeply and turns to stare out the rain-streaked window. The aroma of coffee has died out, leaving the smell of rain to take over. Louie’s back is as straight and still as the chair. I get the feeling he’s a million miles away. “All these years,” Louie says so low the rest of us grow quiet to hear him. “All this time, and I never knew.”

  Colt and I exchange shrugs. “You never knew what, Louie? ” Colt asks.

  Louie’s back is to us, so we can’t see his face. He answers so slowly that it feels like each word carries the weight of a thousand memories. “Never knew I was a Madagascar day gecko.”

  It’s a line that should have made us laugh, but we don’t. Colt and Rune stare down at the table or their hands. I know I’m missing part of Louie’s story, but I don’t ask. Instead, I reach over and put my hand on his shoulder.

  Without turning around, Louie reaches back and covers my hand with his.

  “Wait a minute,” Rune says, breaking the uneasy silence. “That still doesn’t explain why you and them dogs of yours—your boyfriends’ dogs—come in here going on midnight in a dress like that there one.”

  “Nope.” I grin at him. The big guy’s growing on me, identity crisis or not. “That’s because Went was just my first love. And Adam was only my first fall.”

  “Adam,” Louie says, turning back to the table. “Now that’s a mighty fine name for a dog that’s a first fall, I’d say.”

  Eve has settled next to Rune. She stretches out her neck and lays her head on Rune’s big thigh.

  “She likes you, Rune,” I tell him, pointing to the Dalmatian. “You should feel honored. Eve doesn’t warm up to everybody.” I turn to Ad
am, still curled on Colt’s lap. “Unlike some dogs I know.”

  Colt keeps petting the little terrier. “So what do you think, Louie? Shouldn’t we be hearing about that second fall?”

  “I tend to agree with you, Colt,” Louie says, shifting around in his chair so that it makes me wonder if his whole body doesn’t hurt. “I’m not going anywhere.” He nods to the window. “Neither is that rain by the looks of it.”

  “What I want to know,” Rune says, Eve’s head still resting on his leg, “is where’d you get this dog? What boyfriend in his right mind would let go of a dog like this here one?”

  “Not to mention a fine young woman like our Bailey there,” Louie adds.

  “Bailey,” Colt asks, “are you sure nobody’s waiting on you anywhere? Like . . . your date maybe?”

  The question takes me by surprise. “I guess I’m not sure, to tell you the truth.” I’m not carrying my cell. I glance at the clock. It’s tomorrow already.

  “Could I borrow your cell?”

  Colt hands his over, and I text Mom to let her know I haven’t been kidnapped and I’m safe and warm. I pass the phone back to Colt. “Thanks. I guess that does it.”

  “Well, then,” Louie says. “I guess you better get started on that story of yours.”

  “And this story is about Eve, right?” Rune asks, making sure.

  “Right.” Looking at the Dalmatian brings back a flood of memories. “This is about Eve.”

  RUNE THE IDENTITY-CRISIS GUY

  RUNE CAN HARDLY BELIEVE this spotted dog likes him so much. Every time he strokes her smooth, white head, she thumps her tail on the floor. He never had a dog when he was a kid. He asked his old man for one once and got slapped down for it. “You think I want another dog eating me out of house and home?” his dad had yelled. “One dog is enough.” He’d meant Rune because they’d never had a dog. Rune thinks he was about six at the time.

  Fran, Rune’s wife, has nagged him for years to get a pet for the boys. She and Rune fought about it last week, he’s pretty sure. They fight about so many things it’s hard to keep track. More times than not, Fran and the boys, Miguel and Stefan, end up crying, and Rune slams the door on his way out, the way he did tonight. That’s why he volunteered to close for Louie. He wasn’t looking forward to going home for another round with his wife. He doesn’t know how many more rounds either of them can last.

  He’s afraid to move his leg. He doesn’t want to disturb the dog.

  That girl in her party dress clears her throat, like she’s finally going to get going on Eve’s story.

  “What kind of a host am I?” Louie says. “Here you’re doing all the talking, and you don’t even have a glass of water to show for it.” He starts to get up.

  “I got it,” Colt says, beating the old man to it. The kid carries that white mutt with him to the kitchen.

  “Good thinking, Ace,” Rune calls after him. “Now the health inspectors will really come down on us.”

  “Sorry, Rune,” the kid calls back. He shifts the dog under one arm and brings back a glass of water that he sets in front of the girl, Bailey. “There you go.”

  Rune doesn’t know much about the kid, except that he always orders apple juice and hogs the newspaper. He reads that paper like he’s looking for clues. Rune never saw anybody read a paper like that. Colt’s not a bad guy, though. And he tips more than the cost of the juice.

  “So?” Rune presses. It surprises him that he wants to know about this dog as much as he’s wanted to know about the girl in the party dress.

  “So,” the girl, Bailey, says. “Eve. Looking back, I guess my second fall all boiled down to a case of mistaken identity. But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  the second fall

  eve

  1

  The thing about having a first boyfriend is that most of us girls—whether or not we realize it at the time—sign a Declaration of Dependence. Now don’t get me wrong. We’d never admit this to you guys, or even to other girls usually. Maybe not even to ourselves. But from that first boyfriend on, in varying degrees, we become addicted to boyfriends.

  For me, everything changed after Went. I had crossed the line. I had been a girlfriend with a real boyfriend. So after we broke up and I vowed I would never get back together with Went Smith, I felt an emptiness I hadn’t felt in my boyfriend-less days.

  My friend Amber tried to help. “Bailey, you are so much better off without Went. No boyfriend is better than a bad boyfriend.”

  Only from where I stood, across the invisible universal boyfriend line, Amber was simply wrong.

  It was midsummer before our junior year, when we’d be herded to Tri-County High, in Freemont, with all the other juniors and seniors in a sixty-mile radius. Amber and I were soaking up the sun’s cancer rays at the pool in Freemont because I didn’t want to drive to Larkfield and risk running into Went. And yes, I said drive. The only good thing about my summer so far had been that I’d miraculously passed the parallel parking test, astounding the license examiner as much as it astounded Mom and me. We all knew it was a fluke, but we took it.

  I rolled onto my back for some equal-opportunity tanning. A guy and girl strolled right by my beach towel. They were holding hands. Boyfriend and girlfriend.

  “Amber,” I whined, “why can’t I have a boyfriend? I miss having someone to hold my hand like that and gaze at me like he thinks I’m wonderful.”

  Amber sat up on her towel, looking perfect in her two-piece. “Didn’t you learn anything from breaking up with Went? Get real! You wanted a boyfriend so much that you wore blinders the whole time. He hit on Big D, for crying out loud.”

  I sat up to face her. “I know. And this time, no blinders. I promise. Plus, I’m holding out for a gecko, who only has eyes for me. See? I have, too, learned from my Went relationship.” I plopped back down on my towel. “Which is why I am so ready for a mature boyfriend.”

  I tried. I really did. But my junior year turned into a blur of short-term, no-dog boyfriends. Short-term, because I meant it when I told Amber that from now on, I was a Madagascar day gecko. The boy I’d choose to love had to love me back—just me. No longer would I overlook the transgressions of a player. I deserved better.

  So when No-Neck, my first football boyfriend, got too friendly with a Tri-County cheerleader, I dumped him. It almost felt good. Truthfully, it had only taken one date for me to realize that No-Neck couldn’t talk coherently about anything except football, and not so much that.

  No-Neck was followed by Switch, as in Switchblade, not because he carried one, but because he looked like he could. He was almost as sexy as Went . . . and about ten times as stuck on himself. When I refused to have sex with him—after the second date!—he broke up with me and found his solace in good ol’ Carly.

  I’m pretty sure King Hairy came next—don’t ask. He was definitely single-minded, though not about girlfriends. He would have been perfectly happy to have a dozen girlfriends simultaneously. His single-mindedness was on the subject of sex—he wanted it. I really don’t think he had any other hobbies, goals, or interests.

  My relationship with Mom seemed to get worse with the passing of each dogless boyfriend. I blamed it on Mom’s having totally lost her cool. Before and after my dates, she’d give me the third degree of stock questions, and I’d dutifully supply her with stock answers.

  We didn’t fight all the time. But we did fight a lot, and most of the fights could have been prerecorded:

  Mom:

  “Bailey, where do you think you’re going?”

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I’ve had just about enough.”

  “I’ve had all I can take.”

  “How could you do this to me?”

  Me:

  “Nowhere.”

  “Nothing.”

  “No one.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “You don’t understand!”

  Th
e last few months of my junior year, I had dated Mediocre Mark, whose sole purpose in life was to find the easiest classes and sleep through them. Amber didn’t like him because he never spoke in complete sentences. But I saw his potential, and I went for it. Mark, who, as it happened, was head-turning hot, proved to be my biggest challenge. I wore him down with a series of ego-booster tactics culled from Cosmo, including one about asking for a man’s help. Mark’s help in my intro to creative writing class brought down my grade from an A- to a C+, but it was worth it—for a while. I had a loyal boyfriend, a potential gecko. We did everything together. We even took our PSATs together, and I pretended not to notice when he copied my math section.

  It was because of Mark that I enrolled in the “College Now!” summer school program at the University of Missouri. Amber, of course, signed herself up for the AP course in writing and journalism the day we heard about it. Going to summer school my last truly free summer of my life—because I couldn’t count the summer before college with all that impending stress—appealed to me about as much as attending reform school before going to prison. But Mark was going to Mizzou to get out of working at his dad’s car wash all summer, so what choice did I have? Mizzou it was.

  Three days before school ended, Mark brought up the subject of sex. It wasn’t that we hadn’t discussed it before. Usually, Mark lacked the ambition and follow-through to make a big issue out of it. But this time it was different. We were parked in my driveway after having sat through the worst movie I’d ever seen, in which at least seventeen teens got slashed to death. Mark loved it. “You are so sexy, Bailey,” he said, his hand grasping for second base.