Must Love Dogs (16 page)

“Can do,” I said.

On the way to my classroom, I poked my head into Lorna’s room. “Do you have any food?” I asked. She opened her pocketbook, threw me a Snickers bar.

“Bless you,” I said, unwrapping it and biting off at least a third of it.

“Oh, I got the message you called. Several days later, that is, when Mattress Man remembered. I think he thinks that if he doesn’t give me my messages, I’ll stay home or something.” She smiled as if she’d just said something wonderful.

“Do you really think he does that?”

“Probably.”

“Doesn’t that piss you off?”

“Why?” She folded her hands together and sighed dramatically. “He loves me, he really loves me.” Sally Field couldn’t have said it better. She picked up her calendar from her desk. “Okay, let’s pick a date right now before we get too busy with the holidays.”

*

“I’d appreciate it, Ms. Hurlihy,” said Patrice Greene, “if you’d spend some time with the children reinforcing proper respect for one’s clothing.” Molly’s headband was among the missing, and Mrs. Greene had probably paid big bucks for it. “It’s confusing for Molly to receive one message at home and a contradictory one at school.”

I didn’t want to get Molly in trouble by telling her mother that each morning Molly started flinging her accessories around the classroom the moment Mom was out of sight. I wanted to tell Mrs. Greene that Molly was a joyful, carefree child and hadn’t she noticed she was cramping her style with all that stuff? I ventured a careful step into these waters: “I think she just likes to be comfortable.”

Patrice Greene eyed my outfit, a pants and jacket set that had begun the day as
unstructured
, but was by now downright wrinkly. I loved its bagginess and deep cinnamon color. “Well, wouldn’t we all,” she said, shrugging her shoulders with the impossibility of making someone who wore lightweight cotton in late fall grasp her standards.

“Hey, Teach, how’s things?” I jumped at Bob Connor’s voice, composed myself quickly, checked to see if I’d been dismissed by Mrs. Greene. I had. She was attempting to straighten out Molly’s tights. They had sagged and twisted so that the crotch was centered just above her right kneecap.
Good luck
, I thought.

“Austin, your dad’s here,” I called, even though Austin, wearing a big grin just like his father’s, was already heading in our direction. I started to walk away, hoping I looked as if I had something else to do.

“So, Sarah, I hear Dolly’s cooking your Thanksgiving dinner,” Bob said.

“What?”

“I helped her carry the turkey to her car last night. Big sucker. Thirty-two pounds, I think she said.”

Why was I always the last to know anything? We couldn’t possibly be having Thanksgiving dinner in Dolly’s trailer, could we? I wondered if Bob knew, but I certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking. “What makes you think I’m spending Thanksgiving with my family?”

“You’re not?”

I hesitated. “No.”

“Where are you going, then?”

I was aware of a certain tightness working its way out from my neck to my shoulders. “I can’t imagine why that would be any concern of yours.” June floated over to us, stopped too close to Bob, smiled that spaced-out smile of hers.

“June Bug,” Bob said. “How’s it going?”

*

“Nice job, Siobhan. I know I keep saying that, but you really are a good teacher. And the kids really do love you. And now I really will shut up.” I leaned my head back against the passenger seat of my Civic. Siobhan drove just barely over the speed limit. She hadn’t even pulled over to smoke a cigarette since the first time. What a great kid she was.

Siobhan looked straight ahead. Her hands were on the wheel at ten and four o’clock. “Aunt Sarah, can I move in with you?”

“Oh, Vonny.” I hadn’t called her Vonny since she was about four. “Honey. Siobhan. Your parents would never let you. They’d miss you too much.”

“Yeah, right. I asked my mother last night.”

“What’d she say?”

“The exact quote is ‘There’s the door.’”

“Her feelings were just hurt. She didn’t really mean it.” At least I hoped Carol didn’t mean it. As much as I loved Siobhan, I was having a hard enough time trying to find a life without having to deal with a sixteen- year-old roommate. “You know, the holidays always make everyone more emotional. Just try to get through them and then things will calm down. Teenagers aren’t supposed to get along with their parents.”

“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.

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 Jennifer. 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.