What the Dog Ate (8 page)

The last part made the rest
worthwhile, though. They hugged their knees to their chests, then stretched out
on the floor.

“These final poses will guide you
to deep relaxation,” the instructor said. “Breathe deeply; focus on relaxing
each part of your body. Your hairline, your forehead. Feel the skin of your
face relax. Let your eyes descend into their sockets.” The instructor’s voice
soothed her, like tea and honey on a sore throat. This part she could do! She
actually felt her face relax, her ears and cheeks slid toward the floor; her
eyes dropped into their sockets.
Wow. Who even knew that
was possible?
Her forehead unfurrowed for the first time in weeks.

After class, as Maggie rolled up
her mat, Madonna whispered, “It gets easier. See you next week.”

When she got home, she was
surprised to find Kevin, lounging on the couch with Kona, watching baseball.
Kona climbed over Kevin and ran to greet her.

“I thought this was poker night.”

“Oh, yeah. Uh, it got cancelled.
How was class?”

“OK.” Maggie flopped down on the
overstuffed chair across from Kevin. Kona wedged his eighty pounds in with her.
“You should see the women in there.”

“You gonna go back?” Kevin asked;
his hazel eyes never leaving the TV.

“I sorta have to. I stupidly bought
a three-month pass. Each class was like half-price if you did it that way.” The
cost-per-use would be outrageous if she never went back.

“Safe? He was out by a mile.” Kevin
jumped off the couch and ranted to Kona about umps who suffer from severe
myopia.

Maggie walked out. No sense trying
to talk to him while he was watching sports.

~~~

Saturday morning, Maggie slept in.
When she got up, she told Kevin she’d make him a smoothie for breakfast. She’d
planned ahead the night before and put a well-ripened banana in the freezer,
knowing it would add a nice creamy texture. She poured vanilla soy milk into
the blender, then cleaned two handfuls of fresh strawberries. She noticed their
deep red color, their perfect ripeness, as she pulled off the leaves and sliced
them in half. She couldn’t resist the smell and popped one in her mouth. The
burst of sweet juice contrasted with a bitter memory of Dave telling her she made
the “best smoothies on the planet.” I guess that’s not the kind of talent that
helps you hold onto a man, she thought as she plopped the rest of the fruit
into the carafe. She broke the frozen banana in half and dropped it in, then
sprinkled some wheat germ on top.

While she blended her concoction in
the kitchen, Kevin rummaged in the garage. He’d moved in enough sports
equipment to open a shop. He’d also brought his collection of over forty
Smurfs. He’d been collecting the small bright blue and white rubber figurines
ever since he and Dad had gotten hooked on the cartoon when Kevin was nine.
When Maggie saw him heading into the house with the box marked SMURFS, it led
to a discussion that started with, “How long are you going to be staying that
you feel the need to have your little blue friends in the house with you?” and
ended with, “The Smurfs stay in the garage.” (Although she noticed when she put
clean towels in his room, that he’d smuggled in his “lucky” Golfer Smurf.)

He came in as she was pouring the
thick, pink smoothie into two tall glasses.

“That looks good,” he said. “Nice
shirt, by the way.”

She leaned against the counter and
handed him a glass. She wore an over-sized black T-shirt with red lettering
that said, “I’m a witch, OK?” It was from a Halloween party she and Dave had
gone to last year. She hadn’t had time to figure out a costume and grabbed the
shirt on a last minute dash to Target. Meanwhile, Dave had spent hours, days
turning himself into a bottle of Corona, complete with lime wedge. She’d wanted
him to make her a matching Corona Light, but he wouldn’t do it.
Had he already stopped loving me? If your husband won’t make your
Halloween costume, is that one of those signs you’re supposed to notice?

Kevin sat at the bar and sucked on
his straw. “As awesome as I remembered them being. But maybe a little
heavy-handed with the wheat germ.” She frowned at him, but realized he might be
right when she took a sip from her own glass. “It’s good, though. Really. Hey,
let’s finish these up and go for a bike ride. It’s a beautiful day out there.”

“I don’t think so.” She held the
empty blender for Kona to lick. She hadn’t biked in ages. For years, Dave and
Maggie had gone for long Sunday rides and then she’d whip up a big batch of
smoothies for them when they got home. But then, as work consumed her, she’d
started sending Dave on his own. It gave her at least three hours to get some
work done. At first Dave objected, but eventually he told her he’d met a guy
from their neighborhood and was riding with him each week.

Now she wondered if he’d ridden
over to Stupid Slut’s place every Sunday. He’d started to stay out longer each
week, saying he’d gone for coffee or lunch with his bud.
Yeah,
right. I’m an idiot
. She sighed and told Kevin she didn’t need him dragging
her on a fifty mile ride-from-hell, razzing her about how out of shape she was.
Besides, the idea of forcing her now-flabby butt into spandex shorts called the
phrase “bag of cats” to mind.
No, thanks
.

“Not that kinda ride,” he said.
“We’ll go to Mission Bay; it’s nice and flat. We can stop at Bandito’s for
lunch and margs.” He waited for an answer, but when she silently continued
wiping the counters he added, “Truth is, I’m supposed to meet my buddy,
Russell. Sometimes he’s a bit much, and I figured if you were along, you could
be my excuse to leave early.”

“This is supposed to entice me to
come along?”

“Come on, it’ll be fun. Besides,
what could you possibly have planned for today that beats the ocean and
margaritas?” He sealed the deal by promising he’d owe her one; she could drag
him along the next time she wanted to go somewhere.

So she tossed Kona a Kong full of
peanut butter, and she and Kevin drove to Mission Bay with their bikes loaded
on his car. They pedaled along the boardwalk, dodging the other bikers,
walkers, teenage girls in skimpy bikinis, joggers, rollerbladers, tourists, gawkers
and a drunk yelling about the end of the world and the rising price of grain
alcohol.

Russell waited for them on the deck
of Bandito’s, which smelled of hot, spilled beer and suntan lotion. He stood up
when Kevin introduced them. He was almost Kevin’s height, maybe six-two. He
pushed his sunglasses up into his wavy brown hair as he said hello. She liked
the way his smile wasn’t just a flash of teeth, but his whole face took part:
his tan cheeks, the crinkles around his bright blue eyes, his pointed devil’s
eyebrows.

Was that an extra flex of his
bicep, she wondered as he shook her hand.
Surely he’s not
trying to impress
me.
I’ve got major bike-helmet
hair and I’m all sweaty
. Although the ride had been flat, the day was
sunny, and keeping up with Kevin had been an effort.

They sipped margaritas while
waiting for their food. Russell still worked at the same firm Kevin left two
jobs ago. It sold administrative software for doctors’ offices and clinics
across the western states, and Russell was head of sales in California and Oregon.
He filled Kevin in on the latest gossip and told Maggie funny stories about
Kevin, including an episode where Kevin suggested to a client they go to a tapas
bar for dinner, but the client thought he said “topless.”

The food arrived and the men
bantered and bragged while they ate their quesadillas.

“I’m glad you quit, man,” Russell
said to Kevin. “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve been top sales dog five of the
eight quarters.”

“Only five?” Kevin said.

This led to a debate over who was
the better salesman, with boasts of the “I can sell heaters to Arizonans in
August” variety. Maggie missed the connection, but somehow this evolved into an
argument about whether surfing or fishing was the better sport. She laughed at
them as this segued into a discussion over whether Mel Brooks’ best movie was
Young Frankenstein
or
Blazing Saddles
.

When she tired of this, she said,
“You’re both idiots.
The Producers
is his finest
work.”

“Ah,” Russell toasted her with his
margarita. “A woman who knows her Mel Brooks is a woman after my own heart.”

“Speaking of women,” Kevin asked,
“what’s up with Pam? You break up with her?”

“Yeah, man. I told you. She had
that fatal flaw.”

Alcoholic?
Champion nag? Jealous type?

Kevin said to Maggie, in mock
seriousness, “She has an outie.”

Maggie looked at Russell. “An Audi?
And you, what, only date women who drive American-made cars?”

Kevin laughed, and Russell said,
“No, an outie belly button.” He shivered. “I couldn’t get past it.”

Oh dear. Kevin
was right. This guy is a bit much. But funny. And cute. Definitely cute
.

In the end, Kevin did not use her
as an excuse to leave early. They sat all afternoon. They drank (after the margs,
the men switched to beer and Maggie to iced tea, not wanting to pedal drunk),
and they laughed until Maggie’s sides hurt.

~~~

The next time Maggie went to yoga,
Madonna, whose name was actually Helen, invited her for a drink afterwards. A
flight attendant who worked first class on trips to Spain and France, Helen
asked for a glass of water along with her glass of pinot noir. She told Maggie
about the ravages of dry airplane air on her fifty-one-year-old skin.

“I thought you were in your
forties. You look great.” Maggie decided she’d ask for some water too. “Your
job sounds so glamorous.”

“It can be fun sometimes. I just
qualified as a Spanish Speaker, so that’s been kind of interesting... and
challenging.”

“Spanish speaker?”

“On international flights we try to
have a person who speaks the local language. You get paid more if you’re the
official designee. I decided to study up and got qualified.”

“That’s great. Must be fun to learn
something new—and useful—for work.” Maggie thought of the financial reporting
conference she’d been to. Not much use for that knowledge in everyday life.
“What a cool job.”

“Well, it can be pretty un-cool
sometimes.” Helen went on to amuse Maggie with drunken businessmen horror
stories. When you work in accounting, it is seldom that a drunk gropes your
ass. Maggie realized it was one thing in the “pro” column for accounting, but
still, she couldn’t think of any funny stories that could compete with Helen’s.

By the time their second round of
drinks arrived, Helen mentioned her divorce three years ago, and suddenly
Maggie was pouring out her story, and a tissue’s worth of tears.

Maggie found Helen easy to talk to,
maybe because of her practically-a-stranger status or because of the alcohol.
She liked how Helen didn’t offer platitudes or advice, simply frowned or smiled
sympathetically while Maggie talked.
It’s sort of like
talking to Kona
.

Maggie dabbed at her eyes and said,
“I don’t want to be one of those bitter women who end up hating men. I mean, I
realize it wasn’t all his fault.” She started to cry again, “I... I didn’t make
him happy anymore. If I’d made him happy, he wouldn’t have...”

Helen handed Maggie a napkin, since
her tissue was on its last legs. “My ex cheated on me too.” She shook her head.
“I’m not going to lie. Divorce sucks; it’s damn hard to get through. And I’m no
Liz Taylor, but, I’d like to at least put my limited experience to good use.
You call me anytime you want to talk.” She wrote her number on a second napkin
and pushed it across the table. “And you’d better call me, or I’ll call you.”

~~~

Maggie phoned Helen two days later,
clutching the crumpled napkin. “I have Friday off, so I thought I’d see if you
wanted to go to lunch or something?”

“I’d love to,” Helen said, “But I’m
working the Barcelona flight.”

“Oh.”

“How about taking yourself out
shopping instead? When my ex left, I bought a whole new wardrobe. You know what
they say, when God closes a door, he opens a charge account.”

Maggie couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m not much for shopping. Or are they offering charge accounts at Baskin
Robbins now?”

“Wait, I’ve got a great idea. And
it won’t affect your bottom line, if ya’ know what I mean. You know the modern
art museum?”

“MAMA reopened?” Maggie remembered
reading about the Museum of Abstract and Modern Art when it closed last year
for remodeling, but hadn’t heard it reopened. She missed a lot of news these
days. It hit her one day after back-to-back stories on the Middle-East crisis,
the plight of the polar bear, and a local murder-suicide that she’d had enough.
She’d quit cold turkey. Kevin read Sports, she read Business, and after a quick
scan of the front page to make sure she wasn’t missing any major world crisis,
she’d toss the paper in the recycling.

“It reopened last week and it’s
fantastic. You’ve got to go, and then next week when I’m back, we’ll go to
lunch and compare notes. Sound like a plan,
mi amiga
?”

“OK, it’s a plan.” Maggie smiled
hearing Helen call her “friend” and at Helen’s idea as well. Maggie loved
modern art; with her color-inside-the-lines ways, she liked to imagine the
free-spirited artists, unconstrained by convention. At work, everything was
rules and numbers; perfectly aligned columns and rows of little digits,
soldiering toward totals that would lead to strategic plans, tactical decisions,
investments, divestments. God forbid someone might forget to carry the one;
misplace a mere decimal point and all hell could break loose. But abstract art
was the antithesis of all that. The seemingly haphazard colors and designs
somehow came together; there simply to be looked at, to be enjoyed, to provoke
thought or emotion. There could be no mistakes; no way to get it wrong. No dire
consequences. No stress.