What the Dog Ate (12 page)

Get a grip
.
She tried her mirror trick and went straight to the large one over her dresser.
Her chin stopped wobbling. But, tears or no, she was still depressed.

She decided to try putting some of
the yoga money she’d been spending to use. Try to calm down. She stood on the
hardwood floor and practiced some of her favorite poses: Downward-facing Dog,
Upward-facing Dog, Exalted Warrior. These were the moves she liked best, not
because she was particularly good at them, but because the names alone usually
lifted her spirits. She was best at Tree Pose, and could easily balance on one
leg with her hands in prayer position over her head all day. And Tree Pose was
a nice enough name; but, for feeling powerful, Exalted Warrior beat Tree Pose
any day.

She was still feeling down, so she
decided to pull out the big guns and end with her favorite, Happy Baby Pose.
More like Morose Baby Pose today, but let’s give it a shot
.
But she couldn’t lie down and bend her knees into her chest to grab hold of her
feet while lying on the hardwood floor; it would be murder on the spine. She
went to the closet for her mat, where she found Kona fast asleep on it. One end
was ragged and bits of purple rubber littered the floor around his large,
square head.

“Kona, bad dog!”

He woke with a start, then assumed
his caught-in-the-act, peeking up sadly from under his eyebrows, look.

She yanked the ruined mat from
under him. “Get out of here, you bad boy. Go outside.”

Alone in her room, she avoided the
mirror, and curled into fetal position in bed.

Several days later, Maggie found
herself struggling, yet again, to keep from crying as she said goodbye to
Kevin. He drove off, his car loaded with clothes, Smurfs and golf clubs. She
held back the tears until he turned the corner. Her cheeks still damp, she had
to smile when she went into his room to pull the sheets off the bed—he’d left
his Handy Smurf behind for her with a note saying it would bring her good luck.
She picked it up and fingered the little blue figurine’s gray overalls and
toolbox.
Leave it to Kevin to say it with Smurfs
.

In the days after Kevin left, she
tried to get used to his absence. Actually, she could get through the daylight
hours well enough. She went to work, worked out, or puttered around the house
and yard. She played her eclectic CD collection (American musicals, alternative
rock, opera, reggae, punk, French accordion music, whatever) and rather enjoyed
the fact that Kevin wasn’t there complaining about the majority of it.

But dinner time was tough. She
tried watching baseball while she ate, just like they’d done most nights while
he was there. Even though they’d hardly talked during the games, it wasn’t the
same. It felt lonely, sad. She tried reading during dinner, paying more
attention to her book than she did to what was on her plate, pushing the food
around with her fork. She thought she’d try making comfort food one night and
cooked up a big pan of cheesy, melty tuna casserole. It cheered her up the
first night. The second, it was still tasty. By the fourth night she was sick
of it. Kona offered to finish it, but she put the rest in the freezer.

Tougher even than dinner times,
though, were the last few hours of each day. Somehow those hours took on a
palpably different feeling from the daytime. When she got back late from the
museum or from being out with Helen or Russell, the quiet of the house seemed
to have its own physical presence, waiting for her. It tried to smother her.

Until Kona realized she was home
and came running; his high school cheerleader energy chased away the gloom. If
it wasn’t for him, she might have considered getting a roommate.

She was especially glad to have
Kona there with her when it was time to crawl into bed each night. She was glad
now that they’d been bad owners and let him sleep in their bed.

They’d intended to crate train him
as a puppy, but that had lasted all of three nights, well, technically two and
a half. Of course, back then he took up minimal space, his brown bean-bag
puppy’s body flopped between their pillows. Once grown, however, it was a
constant struggle for mattress real estate. As with all such dealings, the key
was location, location, location. Each night, he started out stretched along
the foot of the bed, their legs bent around him in a horizontal game of
Twister. But slowly, throughout the night, he’d slink his way up toward the
head of the bed, burrowing in between them. Then he’d push against them until
he had enough room.

Now, with just the two of them,
they each had plenty of space. But some nights, when she felt especially
lonely, she was the one bothering him. She would scoot over until they were
back-to-back. Or sometimes she’d rest her head on his sturdy side, soothed by
the metronome of his slow, rhythmic heartbeat.

~~~

In addition to Kona’s company,
Maggie took comfort in knowing Helen and Russell were both keeping an eye on
her. It helped, knowing they were thinking of her. Some days a simple message
on her machine (“
Hola
. Wanted to see how you’re
doing. Call me.”) pulled her out of the mild undertow of depression that often
lurked close by. And Helen had insisted they add a weekly weights workout to
their routine. Maggie suspected Helen only suggested it to make sure Maggie got
out of bed on Saturdays, but she’d had fun the first couple of times and hoped
they’d stick to it.

It was the same with Russell. He’d
email her almost every other day, often including a link to a funny dog-related
video he’d found on YouTube; his emails always made her giggle. He had come by,
twice, armed with his toolbox. When she’d treated for the combined Kevin’s
going away/Russell’s do-over birthday dinner, Kevin ceremoniously handed the
house To Do list over to Russell, who’d crooned a few bars of James Taylor’s
I’m Your Handyman
. She’d had to intervene though, when
Russell started a debate over whether DeWalt or Craftsman made the best tools.

One night a couple of weeks after
Kevin left, she invited Helen and Russell for dinner. She didn’t say it
outright, but she wanted to thank them for looking out for her. As they dug
into their grilled salmon, she imagined her new friends as her own personal
lifeguards.

No, they’re my
get-a-life-guards, my own little Bay Watch team
. She saw them running in
slow-motion on the beach in red swimsuits. Of course, she knew from yoga that
Helen would look fantastic, but she wondered about Russell. He’d probably look
fantastic as well. She knew he’d been on the swim team in college, and he still
had a swimmer’s broad shoulders and narrow waist. She’d seen him in shorts
before.
Nice legs, but what does he look like without his
shirt on?

She shook her head as if she could
rid herself of the image on the Etch-A-Sketch of her brain.
Best not to think that way about your new buddy
. She
excused herself to go get the peach cobbler she’d made for dessert.

But Maggie did think about him
“that way” the following Sunday. Russell, having bought Kevin’s bike, suggested
they ride to Bandito’s.

They sat on the deck under an
umbrella to escape the July-afternoon sun and talked about how happy Kevin had
sounded when they each talked to him earlier that week. Then as they finished
their beers, Maggie told him she was changing her name back to O’Connell.
Russell offered her his large, strong hand to shake and said, “Pleased to meet
you, Ms. O’Connell.”

Back at her house afterwards, he’d
loaded his bike on his car, and then walked her to the door. He leaned against
the doorjamb while they said goodbye. The sun, low in the sky, peeked under her
porch and pointed out the fine gold highlights in his brown hair. In an effort
to keep her fingers from reaching out to touch them, she played with the jade
pendant on her necklace.

Kona burst through the front door
between them, happy to go out and relieve himself after being home alone for
hours. Maggie smiled to herself, thinking it would have to have been a
seriously hot and heavy moment not to be disturbed by the musical accompaniment
of Kona peeing on the liquidambar tree in her front yard.

They laughed as Kona, done with his
business, rolled over on the grass and shimmied and twisted, scratching himself
and grunting. He kicked at the air like an upturned beetle.

“Well, I’d better go. Gotta get the
dog his inner-day,” Maggie said, closing the door on any further thoughts she,
or Russell, might be having about him crossing the threshold.

“Yeah, OK,” Russell said. Maggie
wondered if that was a look of disappointment in his eyes. “This was fun, Ms.
O’Connell. We’ll have to do it again some time.”

~~~

A few days later Russell called to
see if she wanted to catch
Young Frankenstein
on
Friday. A theater in town was having a Mel Brooks retrospective. They arranged
to meet up and go from his place.

After Maggie hung up, she thought
how relieved she was that nothing had happened between them after their bike
ride. It was just a weak moment—a desire for a man’s touch—that made her want
to run her fingers through the fool’s gold of his hair.

I can’t think
about men right now. I’m a mess. Rebound central. Besides, it would never work
out between us. He’s too young for me
.

Maggie thought about that. He was
actually only three years younger. And she guessed that anyone who saw them
together might think he was older than her. She didn’t look her age, thanks to
her Midnight Mahogany touch-ups and her fair skin, which she’d hated as a young
girl. But now, all that hat-wearing, sunscreen-slathering, and general
sun-avoiding she’d put up with as a kid meant she had very few lines on her
face. Whereas, Russell’s temples held the first hints of gray and the laugh
lines around his eyes gave away the fact that this Southern Californian had not
been tied to his hat and sunglasses. Of course, Maggie also knew that in the
world’s eyes, as well as her own, this only made him look distinguished, not
old.

I guess it’s
not that he’s too young, per se, but just... well, a little immature. More like
a twenty-eight-year old, rather than thirty-eight; just wanting to date and
have fun. Not that there’s anything wrong with fun—I could use some fun myself.
Still... I wonder if he’s ever been in love, or would even want to be
.
She shook her head.
I hope he doesn’t think I’m his next
conquest, especially after that... moment on my porch. Or am I crazy?
Was
that a moment?

At any rate, she was glad he wanted
to go see
Young Frankenstein
. No chance he was
thinking of that as a date movie.

~~~

Even though she’d seen it a million
times, Maggie still laughed all through the film. On the way back to Russell’s
condo, where Maggie had left her car, he asked, “Who do you think was sexier in
that, Madeline Kahn or Teri Garr? I enjoy a good debate, but I really can’t
pick a side in this one. Madeline was damn hot, but Teri Garr as Inga... What
man doesn’t want a blond, Swedish assistant? I really can’t decide.” He shook
his head.

“That’s a tough one,” she said,
tapping her forefinger on her lips. “I’m going to have to think about that.”
But what she thought was:
Cool. I’m pretty sure a man who
finds a woman attractive, doesn’t ask her to weigh in on the sex appeal of
other women. Clearly, we’re on the same page here. We’re just buddies
.
“I’m going to have to say: Cloris Leachman.”

Russell looked thoughtful. “Of
course. How could I forget the lovely Frau Blücher?”

Maggie whinnied and he laughed.

“Want to come up for a bit? Have a
glass of wine?” he asked as he pulled into his parking space in the underground
lot.

“OK.” She wanted to check out Mr.
Bachelor’s pad. “I can’t stay long though. Gotta get up early tomorrow and go
to the gym.”

She expected it to look not unlike
a dorm room, but it actually turned out to be rather nice. Bare, but nice.
Except for scattered sports, travel and software magazines, and a few beer
bottles by the sink, it looked similar to a Pottery Barn ad: wood floors, a tan
sofa with fat red throw pillows, and a rug of reds and browns set on an angle.
The kitchen was small, but with a beautiful tiled backsplash. The half-empty
living room shelves held a golf trophy; a picture of Russell, sunburned and
smiling, holding a huge bass; and some paperback books, their bindings cracked,
mostly of the Bond or Bourne type. A pale green hardcover caught her eye:
101 Knitting Patterns
.

Huh, she thought. She hung her
sweater on the back of a barstool and looked around for the accompanying basket
of wool. Aloud she said, “Cool place. Love the tile work.”

“Thanks. I did that myself.” He
pulled a bottle of wine out of the pantry.

“Is that an Xbox?” she asked,
pointing at the TV cabinet.
Aha, there it is
. She
spotted a large coffee tin next to the television overflowing with yarn in soft
blues, greens and grays. Knitting needles stood up out of the can, stuck into
the balls of wool like chopsticks.

“
Combat Fighter
totally rocks. Wanna play?”

“No, that’s OK. So, you’re a
knitter, huh?”

“Yes.” He uncorked the bottle with
a satisfying “thock” sound. “I like to keep my hands busy. And it’s relaxing.”

“You don’t have to sound defensive.
I think that’s cool.” She watched him pour the wine. “So, what kind of stuff do
you make?”

“Mostly scarves and hats. Easy
stuff. We’re not talking works of art here. Once I get a decent-sized pile
together I just donate them to Goodwill.”