Stepdog (13 page)

“I know!” I crowed. “And it's all thanks to this
fantastic
woman!” I threw my arms around Sara's shoulder in an exuberant bear hug and kissed the top of her head. She laughed and reached up to stroke my cheek.

“Congrats,” said Alto. There was the tiniest wistfulness in Alto's voice—not self-pity, but a sort of hopeful envy. It caught me up short. I wouldn't have considered our situations parallel at all, but the moment I heard that tone in Alto's voice, I realized that he did. Which made sense, I s'pose. Having an unconventional identity in conventional society, in any sense, is a wee bit like being at sea: you're always looking for lighthouse beacons. Maybe, in the absence of more immediate inspiration, I was suddenly his, same as that.

I released Sara, and tapped Alto's elbow. “I spent years trying to pass under the radar, mate. I know about looking over my shoulder, and not feeling comfortable in my own shoes.” It was the first time I'd ever
hinted
acknowledging anything not-conventional about Alto. “Don't let the bastards get you down. You're grand. You'll be grand.”

Alto's brown eyes welled up. He nodded slightly. “Thanks, Rory,” he said. He looked at Sara. “He's very lucky—and so are you.”

She looked slightly choked up, too. “I know,” she said. “And now he even has
work
.” We grinned at each other and started giggling ridiculously. Nothing on earth like the sound of Sara's laugh.

W
hen we got home, Cody performed her many “anticlockwise spins of joy” and smacked us with her “happy tail” and of course showed us her “tarty-dog belly.” When she had exhausted all possible expressions of gratitude for not being permanently abandoned, I called Dougie while Sara went into the bedroom with her laptop to plan an impromptu weekend getaway.

The first mad thing about calling Dougie—which I had never done, he always called me—was that the call was picked up not by Dougie but by an assistant, who sounded about twelve. He put me on hold. After the longest fifteen seconds of my life, he came back on the line to somberly inform me: “I have Dougie Martin for you.”

I wanted to say,
Of course you do, that's why I called,
but that seemed unprofessional, so I settled for, “Thank you.”

“Rory! You're the man!”

Suddenly I was almost breathless. “I don't even . . . I'm . . . What does that mean? Exactly?”

“It means they want you!”

What?!
I made spastic-sounding happy noises, and Dougie laughed, and waited for me to calm down, then continued.

“They got the green light for the pilot, that's definitely happening, and they've got a shooting script. They say they're shooting late May. So you've got two and a half months to get out here.”

“Get out . . . there?”

“There's been a change, they're shooting it in L.A. But that's great because L.A. is the place you want to be anyhow.”

I was dizzy, had to take a breath before I could speak. Jesus, what would Sara say? How would she feel about moving
across the continent
? “And after the pilot?” I asked. “They decide if they want to keep me or not?”

“No, you're attached if they run with it, that's what that monster contract was all about. But now there's one potential hitch . . .”

I didn't like the silence he trailed off to.

“We sort of BS'd them about your immigration status, so I really need you to get that green card pronto.”

I burst out laughing. “I just got it this morning. Can you believe the timing?”

“No shit, really?” The relief in his voice was so obvious I could almost smell it. He must have really stretched his neck for me with their legal folks. “Congrats! That's fantastic, Rory, my God, I know how long you've been after that.”

“Thanks,” I said “I couldn't have done it without—”

“So that means we can move on the SAG status,” said Dougie, marching on. “There's a bunch of moving parts here, but it's all really orderly. There won't be any curve balls.”

“The move to L.A. is a bit of a curve ball.”

“Let me talk to them, they'll pay for that. Let's talk next week
and deal with the practical stuff. Just wanted you to have the good news now so you could celebrate over the weekend.”

“Thanks, mate,” I said. “Wow. And, Dougie, thank you for believing in me and—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said grandly. “Save it for the wrap party. Love you, man, talk to you next week.”

I sat on the couch staring at the coffee table. Cody came over to me and firmly planted her chin on my knee, looking up at me adoringly, tail wagging slowly. Just then, Sara came back into the room, eyebrows raised, face beaming hopefully.

I tried to look cool, just leaned back on the couch and nodded a little. Sara opened her arms wide, shouted with joyful laughter, and nearly threw herself at me.

L
ENA TOOK
C
ODY
for the weekend. Sara and I went away to a B&B in the Berkshires, and hardly got out of bed. Much as I'd love to brag about that, I'm a gentleman, so I'll just resume with my return to earth on Monday morning. That's where the second part of this story begins. Although I was too clueless to realize that until months later.

M
onday morning, I saw Sara off to work as usual, had an espresso and did my crossword puzzle, and then back to the apartment to take Cody for a walk. By that time, Little Miss Organizational Skill Set had already arranged with Lena to have a celebratory lunch for us at the museum later in the week.

I was over the moon and no question, but I can't describe it because . . . it is just hard to describe. I was actually almost in a state of shock.

Anyhow, knowing this lunch was to be held, and feeling (to be honest) a mix of delight and dread at being scrutinized by so many Initialed People, I was truly looking forward to our walk in the arboretum, just me and the dog and the unassuming folks I knew in passing there.

I would never have brought up either the green card or the TV pilot—despite my chatty ways, I am (like most of the Irish race) genetically shy, and bursting out with the news . . . that was never going to happen.

But Alto (although shy) wasn't Irish, and he wasn't me, and he saw no need to keep it a secret. So by the time the dog and I came
bounding up Peters Hill in the raw, damp, early-March air, Cody dashing ahead to see if Marie's kids were there (their hands were usually good for a few molecules of junk food) . . .

. . . I had a little cheering section waiting for me. Literally. Alto, Jay, Marie, her little boys, and a few other faces I knew vaguely, all gave me an actual
ovation
as I appeared over the rise. Jay nearly always sat, but he rose to his feet now, his Samuel Beckett–esque eyes pouring into me with knowing approval, as if he sensed my insecurities and had the deepest (if fatalistic) compassion for them.

“Rory O'Connor,” he said. “What a journey this life is giving you. Heartiest congratulations, my friend.”

Cody, to demonstrate she agreed with him, first leapt on him and then collapsed straight at his feet on the cold, damp grass in a tarty-dog pose.

“It's
so exciting,
almighty God,” said Marie, “Is it here in Boston? Hollywood loves Boston.”

“Actually, Los Angeles, it turns out,” I said, almost dreading the sound of it. Sara had been a little thrown by that development, but then—so like Sara—she was game to go on out.

“Goodness,”
said Jay, eyebrows raised, while little Nick asked, “Can I watch your TV show, Rory?”

That question made it feel more concrete than anything so far.

“. . . Sure, I suppose, if your mum says it's okay.”

“What time will it be on?” he asked, concerned. “I can't watch TV after seven.”

“I . . . I don't know.” I smiled, tickled, thinking:
It
will
be on. It will be on at
some
time
. What an amazing thing!

I laughed a little, looking down, nervous. I wanted to deck Alto for telling them, but I wanted to hug him, too. He looked chuffed
for being the one to deliver the news; it gave him insider status about something pretty cool, and he was preening a little. I far preferred that to the skulking little moper I had first met on this hilltop several months ago. So, as the Yanks like to say, it was all good.

“I believe,” said Jay, “that we should have an official celebration. For everyone. If I am not mistaken, this young gentleman”—meaning Marie's son Nick—“has a birthday coming up.”

“I am not a
genman,
” said Nick defiantly, as if Jay were teasing him. “I am a
boy
.”

“A boy who is one year older soon, aren't you?” said Jay, like a pleased pedagogue. “Would you like a party?”

Nick's eyes glowed and he glanced at his mother, his backside wiggling not unlike Cody's when she greeted us each morning. “Mommy?” he asked hopefully, grinning up at her so intensely his eyes were shut.

“That's very nice of Mr. Jay, isn't it, Nick?” said Marie. To Jay, smiling in amazement: “I can't believe you know his birthday!”

Jay shrugged. “I have a knack for those kinds of details. Last year around this time, I think it was even my first visit to the arboretum, I'd just moved to the neighborhood, and you two were having an argument about his party. It is hard to forget a three-year-old demanding chocolate fondue for his birthday dinner.”

Marie burst out laughing as Nick said, pleased with himself for his originality, “Hey, guess what! I want chocolate fondue for my birthday dinner!”

“Oh, I don't think so, mister. How about a cake?” said his mother.

“Okay,” Nick said, upon reflection.

“Really, though, let's have a little party,” said Jay. “I live just there.” He pointed vaguely toward one of the triple-deckers on the Roslindale side of the hill, the back decks of their upper floors gazing at us through the leafless trees. “I can bring hot spiced cider right over here in a thermos or two.”

“I'll make a cake,” said Marie.

“Chocolate,” said Nick. “
Dark
chocolate.”

“Yes, bossy-man,” said his mother.

“As chocolate as chocolate fondue.”

“A gentleman who knows what he wants,” said Jay approvingly.

“I told you,” Nick scolded, “I'm not a genman, I'm a boy.”

“I'm not so good at cooking,” said Alto, awkward but eager (eager in a repressed sort of way). “But I can bring, like, paper plates and utensils and cups from work.”

“Ach, thievery,” I said approvingly.

“Very useful, and practical,” said Jay.

“What can I bring?” I asked. Garam-Masala Man did not get called upon to serve up many winter picnics.

“You are the guest of honor,” declared Jay. “You and Nick. You two don't have to bring anything. Now, what's a good day?”

Wednesday was established. I realized I was looking forward to this gathering considerably more than the MFA luncheon on Thursday that Lena was arranging.

I
LOVE BIRTHDAYS
and I did not want to show up empty-handed to a four-year-old's. So I went to the toy store on Centre Street and got Nick some cheap pirate gear: hat, eye patch, and of course, shiny plastic cutlass. I modeled it at home for Sara the night
before, explaining the context. She responded so well to the look that I went back to get another set for myself.

Late Wednesday morning, we all converged around the top of Peters Hill. It wasn't windy—in fact, it was strangely mild, high forties, nearly sunny—but except for some early bulbs pushing up here and there, it really wasn't springlike yet at all. In Ireland, this weather could nearly be accounted summer, but in America, even in Boston, it was a raw day for a party, and it seemed mildly daft. I mean that in the best way, though, in that all of us would surely look back at our clumsy attempt and feel fond of one another that we were all in it together.

First came my presents, to Nick and myself. We geared up as twin pirates and
yarrrrr'd
at each other, brandishing plastic cutlasses, while Marie, holding her giggling toddler Ryan, took photos on her smartphone (or, as they say in Boston, her smaht-phone). A few folks on the hillside stared, giggled, clustered to watch. When we took a breather, I tried to dress up Cody with the hat and eye patch, but she was having none of it; she elegantly shook the hat off her head, removed the eye patch with one graceful swat of her back paw, and then trotted over to lean against Alto, whose languid body language as he smoked promised the least danger of frivolity. She looked up adoringly at him as if he would have treats for her.

Then Jay—seated as usual on his chiseled rock—held the platter with the chocolate cake as Marie set Ryan in the pram and lit the candles. We all sang “Happy Birthday” to Nick, and after the official verse, I kept crooning, so he could be serenaded with the most important verse: “Happy Birthday to
you,
you live in the
zoo,
you look like a
monkey,
and you
smell
like one, too.” This was
delivered in a grand,
yarrrring Pirates of Penzance
manner, and judging by his cascade of giggles, he was pleased.

I'm going to make a damn fine da one day,
I thought.
And the kids will be gorgeous with Sara as their ma.
Although in the good-cop-bad-cop scheme of parenting, she would definitely be the bad cop. That would be fine, though. More playtime for me. Cody could be the nanny.

Nick blew out the candles on the cake, and I sliced pieces for everyone as Jay held the tray—which, by the way, was enormous. Curious regulars who had never had the good taste to bond with our unlikely clique hovered near, watching, whispering, chuckling with appreciation . . . and with anticipation, those chancers. There were maybe ten of them. Marie, no doubt anticipating we'd attract attention (even before she knew what dashing pirates we would make) had baked a cake to feed a small army, so after obligatory Large Pieces for Celebrants, I cut the rest into wee squares, and there was your man Alto with the paper plates and plastic forks, which meant no cigarette for fully half an hour, score one for lung capacity. Soon we were feeding the hilltop, with half the cake still left over.

I have to say, it was pretty cool. I felt, for the first time since I gave up drinking, like I was becoming part of a social scene.

“Good man, Jay,” I said. “This was your idea.”

“It takes a village,” he said with a peaceable shrug, setting the platter down beside himself on the rock so he could have a slice himself.

Nick had inhaled his cake while I was cutting and serving everyone else, and he approached me again, chocolate frosting and dark chocolate crumbs all over his face, even on his eyelashes.
“Yarrr!”
he declared, brandishing his cutlass with the blade upside down. “I'm Pirate Nicholas and I'm taking you prisoner!
Yarrr!
”

Cody was on board with this. Her tail was wagging the rest of her body, and she was half bouncing and half bowing beside me, looking up at me earnestly, begging me to engage the enemy. Her eyes were shining and I swear she nearly barked.

“Yarrr!”
I answered Nick, at which Cody leapt up like a Lippizaner, or a kangaroo, springing straight into the air, and then took off around the circle of people, making sure they all knew that Great Stuff was about to happen. I pulled my eye patch back down over my eye, and brandished the cake knife. “You are not taking me prisoner without a fight. Let me get my cutlass. Squire!” I handed off the knife to Squire Alto, and received my cutlass and hat, which I tapped firmly onto my head. I hopped backward from Jay's boulder, to give us more sparring room. Nick excitedly hopped after me. I thought Cody might join in the hop-fest but she now hung back beside Marie, watching, although she looked very excited and approving and, may I even say, proud of her dog walker for looking so dashing and fierce.

“En garde!”
I commanded, and lunged.

“On God!”
Nick thought he echoed, lunging back. I tapped his cutlass blade with mine and stuck my tongue out at him. He gave me a fierce grimace, and growled like a good pirate. He was adorable. I made a mental note to buy a plastic cutlass for Sara—cutlasses were definitely the way to resolve future disputes.

“Take that!” I said, poking my cutlass at him repeatedly as I jumped backward so that he had to chase me in a circle. Our audience was crying with laughter now.

“Wait!” Nick said, very seriously. He stopped chasing me and frowned. “I need my eye patch,” he declared.

“Time out for eye patch,” I called out, lowering my weapon and glancing expectantly around the circle. “Anyone have an extra eye patch for this little sea—
oh no!
”

I said it at the same moment Marie cried out and even Jay gave a gasp of distress: just beyond the perimeter of the circle, Cody was eagerly licking clean the platter on which Marie had brought the cake.

Moments earlier, there had been half of a very large chocolate cake sitting on that platter. Cody's muzzle was creamy with dark frosting.

I had just poisoned Sara's dog.