Must Love Dogs (6 page)

“Okay, wait. We must be almost there. Where the hell is Dad taking us anyway?” The Miata took off with a small squeal of rubber the instant the light turned green. We followed, taking a sudden left into the parking lot behind a strip mall and then over a speed bump and down a dirt road. A sign read whispering pines park. Our three-car procession stopped beside it. Carol and I looked at each other. The good news was I thought she might have forgotten about my personal ad.

Our father, after planting a quick kiss on Siobhan’s forehead, had lumbered ahead to the door of a mint-green-and-white trailer. Carol helped Maeve out of her car seat, while Ian and Trevor and I looked around carefully. A dozen or so trailers, each with a carport on one side and a couple of scrub pines on the other, flanked a rutted circular road. Several short red signs read speed limit 15 and slow down.

Christine and her two kids got out of their car. “Shoeboxes,” said Sydney with her flawless pronunciation. “Shoeboffas,” Sean repeated. Christine shushed them and hurried to join us.

“These are trailers,” Carol was saying. “Lots of people live in them in other parts of the country.” The kids nodded wordlessly. We all looked up to see the door open. A tiny full-figured woman wearing a tight pink suit opened the door. Standing on her tiptoes, she put her hands on our father’s cheeks and kissed him full on the mouth. They lingered and I looked down at my watch and timed it with the second hand.

“Twelve seconds,” I whispered. “And I started late.” Ian and Trevor giggled loudly. Carol gave me her knock-it-off look.

“Come in,” the woman said. “Daddy’s told me all about you.” We filed cautiously toward the door, adults herding the children ahead. “Come right on in and give Dolly a hug.” Obediently, we took careful turns hugging Dolly on the way inside. I tried hard not to stare, but I was fascinated by her looks. Beneath a pouf of pinky-blond hair and a delicate neckline, she looked like a female Jimmy Dean sausage whose casing had an extra tie at the center.

Christine broke the silence. “What a lovely home you have, Dolly.” I bit the inside of my cheek and avoided eye contact with Christine and Carol. Siobhan looked bored. She reached up to check the positions of her earrings.

There was so much furniture in the trailer that it seemed to have displaced the air. Heavy, dark items, including a china cabinet and an armoire, all crammed in end to end as if waiting to move back into a house. A large organ, its top either belatedly or prematurely holding the sheet music for “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” faced a sofa from a distance usually reserved for coffee tables. The sofa became the organ’s bench. A dining room table abutted the sofa’s backside, and was elaborately set for Sunday dinner.

We grouped around the doorway to the kitchen and peered inside. A crocheted potholder with a Halloween motif hung from each handle of the wood-grained Formica cabinets. The reassuring smell of roast came from the oven. “Wow,” said Carol. “Great potholders. Where did you manage to find them?”

My father put his arm around Dolly’s shoulders and pulled her toward him. His fingers disappeared in the pink fabric covering her upper arm. “Everything you see is handmade by Dolly. She’s very creative.”

“Our mother used to sew all of our clothes when we were younger,” I said before I could stop myself. Christine rolled her eyes at me.

“Daddy’s told me all about your mother, honey.” I glared at him, but he wasn’t looking. I mean, what a traitor he was to talk about our mother outside the family. We all leaned back in the narrow hallway and held in our stomachs as Dolly turned and walked past us, her fingertips grazing Dad’s belt buckle as she slid by him.

We clustered outside the tiny bathroom, its sliding wooden door tucked inside the wall to expose the view within. A satiny black-and-silver shower curtain hid the tub, and an ornate gold mirror took up most of the wall space above the smallest sink I’d ever seen. Three Barbie-sized dolls, whose flouncy crocheted skirts concealed rolls of toilet paper, kept each other company atop the toilet tank. In a split second, Maeve managed to dash inside and fill her doll-free hand with one of them. Pulling it away from her, Dolly said, “If you’re a good, good girl and Mommy’s Daddy’s a good, good boy to Dolly, I’ll make you one someday, sweetie.” We looked at Dad expectantly, thinking he might object to the bribe, but he seemed unfazed.

Dolly led us to a closed door. “When my third husband died, I decided the house was simply too much. Ten enormous rooms and just little Dolly to fill them.” She leaned in and kissed my father energetically. By the time I noticed Ian pointing to my watch, it was too late to get an accurate count.

Maeve rescued us from the bedroom tour. “Dolly, dolly, dolly,” she screamed furiously, trying to pull away from Carol’s restraining hand and reenter the bathroom.

“Isn’t that cute,” Dolly said. “She knows my name already.”

*

Carol and I sat in her minivan. Christine and Siobhan would kill us for leaving them with all the kids, but that was later. Maeve had curled up in her car seat. She was sucking her thumb, her own doll clutched in her other hand, recovering from Dolly’s lack of sharing. Turning the key in the ignition, Carol said, “Hand me the tape.” I did, and she pushed the play button immediately.

To hear your messages, press one
. Carol must have done just that because, after a slight pause, the taped messages began.

Friday, October 15,6:53 p.m.
Hi. I’m really good-looking and, uh, if you want to see for yourself, call me at this number. 508-555-1221.

Friday, October 15, 7:48 p.m.
Hello. This is in response to your ad in the newspaper. Exactly what do you mean by voluptuous? Do you mean big breasts or do you mean fat? Direct your answer to my box number, which is 99865.

Friday, October 15, 9:52 p.m.
Woof. Woof, woof. I love dogs, too, and I have a great sense of humor. You can probably tell that already, huh? My box number is 99743.

Friday, October 15, 11:04 a.m.
Good morning. This is Simon. I happened to see your ad in the Globe and it caught my eye, so to speak. I must say that your verbal presentation was quite enticing as well….

I leaned forward and pushed the eject button. “Jesus, Carol. What a bunch of losers. What did my message
say
? Gimme the phone.” I dialed the 800 number, pressed in the password to hear all eighteen free words of my ad:

Voluptuous, sensuous, alluring and fun. Barely 40 DWF

seeks special man to share starlit nights. Must love dogs.

I told Carol how horrified I was by her ad, how I would never let her meddle in my life again and, by the way, how cheap did it look to have exactly eighteen words?! She told me that technically she couldn’t meddle in my life because I didn’t have one. The responses, she insisted, got better, and there were actually a couple of promising ones if I’d just be patient long enough to get to them. And, by the way, did I know that one of my biggest faults, along with my passivity, was my impatience, and my refusal to cooperate with things that were in my best interest, not to mention my total lack of gratitude.

By this point, we had gotten out of the car to lean up against Carol’s minivan so we wouldn’t disturb Maeve. We were both talking at once, creating a kind of discordant sibling rivalry with our competing voices. Faint strains of predinner organ music from inside the trailer accompanied us.

A new voice made us both jump. “Look, Dad, it’s Ms. Hurlihy. Ms. Hurlihy, what are you doing yelling in Whispering Pines Park?” It was a child’s voice, and a familiar one at that. I turned to see that it belonged to Austin Connor.

“My father said you’re nicely attractive,” Austin announced the next morning at circle time.

“He did?” I asked. June noticed my slip. Her expression changed slightly, a little wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. Blushing, I redirected the conversation. “Who wants to tell us about something fun they did over the weekend?”

“We walked by your trailer three more times while you were inside with Dracula Dolly,” Austin continued. “Real slow.”

I was dying to ask Austin if his father had said anything else about me, but I was a professional. I waited no more than a couple of seconds to see if he volunteered anything on his own.

I hoped June saw how easily I moved on. “Can you say ‘tinikling dance’?” I asked the children.

“Tinikling dance,” they repeated in unison.

“Tickling dance,” Jenny Browning yelled. “Tickling, tickling, tickling dance!” The children laughed hysterically at this perfect preschool joke. Molly Greene started the actual tickling. Within seconds, a tangle of giggling bodies rolled around the center of the circle. I let it go briefly while I grabbed the globe, long enough to let them expend some energy, but not so long that someone got hurt.

June and I pulled the kids off each other and directed them back to their places on the circle. I found the Philippine Islands on the vinyl globe and passed it around. We measured the distance to the Denmark of our last dance and to the United States. While the children watched spellbound, I started the tape in the tape deck and grabbed the tinikling poles from the storage closet.

Filipino music filled the classroom, the indecipherable lyrics clearly announcing party time. June and I each held one end of the two tinikling poles, six-foot lengths of real bamboo. Facing each other in a kneeling position, we tapped the poles together to the strong beat, then opened them wide and tapped them on the ground. “In, in, out, out,” we chanted together. The children joined in.

I let Amanda McAlpine take my end, reminding June to be careful to keep the poles under control. I lined up the other students and, one by one, helped them dance over the shifting poles, and then sent them circling around to the end of the line.

After his second time over, Austin decided it was his turn to hold the poles. Before I could react, he leaned to take them from Amanda, just as she was lifting up on the thick bamboo. Blood spurted from Austin’s nose. Amanda screamed. Austin covered his nose, then took his hand away and looked at it. While June ran to get latex gloves and tissues, he said calmly, “Good Lord, it’s a gusher.”

I stayed a safe distance away from Austin while we waited for the tissues. When a child is hurt, all a teacher wants to do is put her arm around his shoulders and comfort him, but in this day and age you have to be gloved before you make contact. “Pinch your nostrils together, honey,” I directed, demonstrating on my own nose the way the teachers were taught every year during our Blood Spill Protocol/AIDS Awareness Inservice. Austin obeyed, squeezing his pudgy nose with stubby fingers. His eyes began to bulge. “Breathe, honey,” I urged. “Breathe through your mouth.” I blew air slowly out through my rounded lips. My hands were restless and I finally settled on crossing my arms and holding my elbows.

June was back in a flash, first dropping the box of tissues on the floor within Austin’s reach, then quickly sliding her hands into latex gloves. “You’re going to be fine, Austin. It’s just a little nosebleed,” she said gently, grabbing a handful of tissues and mopping at Austin’s face. Rivulets of blood were already beginning to cake along his chin and neck. I made a mental note to remember to tell his father to wash his shirt in cold water. If he was staying with his father.

Austin’s voice was muffled behind the wad of tissues. “You’re damn tootin’ it’s a nosebleed. Call 911. Call an ambulance. Call a lawyer. Call….” Austin looked around for inspiration, his eyes peeking over the cloud of white tissue. They rested on the tinikling poles. “You should buy softer poles.” He took a long breath in and started to cry.

I resisted the urge to put on my own pair of gloves so I could give Austin a hug. Instead, I led the other children to the reading area. They huddled close while I read a worn copy of Judith Viorst’s
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
. Jack Kaplan put his thumb in his mouth and twirled a lock of Molly Greene’s silky brown hair with the fingers of his other hand. Molly was holding hands with Max Meehan, who had his other hand on my knee. Amanda was curled up against me on the other side, helping me turn the pages.

We were halfway through the book when Austin, scrubbed clean and wearing a wrinkled T-shirt from his change-of-clothes bag, joined the group. Max Meehan let him wiggle in beside me. Finally I could give him a hug. “All better?” I asked. He nodded, temporarily silent. As I continued reading, June sprayed a bleach-and-water solution on all contaminated surfaces. The sponge she used to wipe would be added to a plastic bag along with the tissues and her gloves, and all would be disposed of carefully.

I closed the book when I finished. “Some days,” Austin said, “you just can’t win for losin’.”

*

Austin’s dad was the last to arrive at dismissal time. “Hey, sport, what happened to you?”

“The tinikling pole hurt me, Dad.”

He scooped Austin up in a bear hug, then turned to me. He had nice green eyes, long lashes.

“Austin collided with a bamboo pole we were using for a dance from the Philippines,” I explained. “He got a bloody nose, but he’s fine now. You should wash his shirt in cold water. Or your wife ….”

“Thanks. If that’s a choice, I think I’ll pick the shirt. My wife probably wouldn’t appreciate being washed by me in any temperature water.”

I laughed. I’d never really thought about how unattractive my laugh sounded, kind of high and nervous. “What I meant was — ”

“Kidding. Sorry. I know what you meant. And I will. Wash it in cold water …. as soon as I figure out which one is the washing machine.” He grinned. I grinned back. He had a great smile, too, broad and boyish. One of his front teeth was twisted slightly, which added to his childlike quality, as if he were still too young for braces. “So, Ms. Hurlihy.”

“Sarah.”

“I know that. What’s my name?”

“Mr. Connor?”

“Bob. Well, actually everyone calls me Bobby, but I’ve been vigilantly trying to change it to Bob since the third grade.”