Stepdog

by Nicole Galland

  Sara took a moment to consider this, grimacing. It really was unnerving how much her face changed when she frowned. “So it’s just a piece of paper, some staged photos, and an interview about your relationship?”

  “About our fake relationship, yes.”

  She frowned some more.

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said definitively. “If you’re getting married just for a piece of paper, you might as well marry the woman you’re dating.”

  “The woman I’m . . . You?” I said in disbelief.

  “Me,” she said, as if it were a done deal. To be clear: It was a demand. It was not a proposal.

  I was gobsmacked. “But . . . I like you. Romantically. Didn’t we just agree to date?”

  “That should make it easier to convince them we’re a real couple,” she said.

  “But it’ll confuse what’s going on between us,” I said. “Don’t you think?” I was having a reflux of precisely the same fluttery symptoms from when Dougie called.

  She shrugged, and took a sip of water from a white ceramic mug on her desk. She picked up a pen and wiggled it between lean fingers—a transparently false act of casualness. “Why? It’s just a piece of paper and an interview. We don’t even have to tell anyone. Except your mates, who will, y’know, think it’s a good ol’ laugh.”

  “What if we break up? I mean, I can’t imagine breaking up with you, unless you insist on keeping the dog on the bed, but I can easily imagine the reverse, because to be honest, I am one of the most aggravating people I know. My own mother, rest her soul, wouldn’t blame you . . .” I drifted into silence as she set down the pen and gave me the Princess Diana look.

  “I’m still your friend, Rory. I’ve worked beside you for months now, I’ve seen you act, you’ve told me all about your past. I’m aware you’re not a Boy Scout, but I know you. I will still help you, even if we stop seeing each other. I know you’re talented. You deserve a break.” She grinned, unsuccessfully hiding her own case of nerves. “If I can’t help you as a boss, at least let me help you as a green-card bride.”

  I felt dizzy. The word “bride” coming out of her mouth made it seem like, you know, marriage. To someone I’d slept with only once. But was already kind of more in love with than anyone ever in my life. Although maybe that was just sex talking . . .

  “It would be simpler for me to marry Laura. Really, it doesn’t mean any—”

  “That will be a lot more complicated in the long run. For one thing, you’ll have to stay married for years by the sound of it, soup to nuts, and what if you and I want to get more serious in the meantime?” We both blushed deeply, which in other circumstances would have been almost enjoyable. “I wouldn’t have a conversation about this after a normal first date. But there’s nothing about any of this that’s normal.”

  I felt both horrified and thrilled by the direction the conversation was taking. “But let’s say we keep seeing each other. It’s not like we’d be ready to get married now, or even soon. I don’t know that I’m the marrying sort at all. So being married might make things, you know . . . weird.”

  “For me it wouldn’t be as weird as dating a married man, even—”

  “It’s just a piece of paper!”

  “Then get that piece of paper with me!” she said with exasperation.

  “If it’s with you, it’s not just a piece of paper!” On top of the dry mouth and sweaty palms, I thought I might be having heart palpitations. I had a strong urge to run out of the room and come back a few hours later already married to my cousin and then somehow convince my new girlfriend it was no big deal.

  “Can’t we agree it’s just a piece of paper?” she asked. “It could be a team sport: getting Rory O’Connor’s green card.”

  “It’s not a game,” I said, suddenly sharp. “I’ve been struggling with my immigration status for a decade now, which is mad given I am an able-bodied English speaker from the island that spawned half the white population of America. There’s a lot of weight here, a lot of history. You’re being impulsive in a way that’s not like you, Sara. Impulsive is my gig.”

  She looked a little taken aback. “I’m not being impulsive,” she argued. “Because I know it’s just a piece of paper. I think helping you with your green card is a worthy cause no matter our relationship. I’d be jealous to be left out of the effort, in fact. And if things gets weird, at least it’s a weirdness I’m actively a part of, not a weirdness I have to watch from the sidelines. I’d have some sense of agency in all this. After my last relationship, I need that.”

  I looked at her. She looked at me. I looked at her some more, knowing eventually I’d have to say something, because it was my turn. She was gorgeous. Those green eyes. Dark lashes. Almond-shaped eyes, almost Persian, a shape you don’t often see with green eyes.

  “Rory? What do you say?”

  I looked down at the industrial carpeting, and her neat, unmanicured feet in their strappy sandals. I wanted to take her dancing in those sandals. Ideally at this very moment, so we wouldn’t have to have this conversation. I looked back up at her. “As long as we’re really clear that it is only about a piece of paper,” I said.

  “Agreed.”

  “And it doesn’t mean anything about our actual relationship.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And if one of us forgets that and starts acting, you know, spouselike, the other one gets to dump ’em in the Charles till they smarten up.”

  “Agreed,” she said, with one very serious nod of her head. She held out her right hand.

  “Because I’d be very grateful, but I don’t want to feel beholden—”

  “Shut up,” she said, affectionately, and so adorably offhand that—damn the torpedoes!—I had to marry her before anyone else could.

  Chapter 3

  Sara’s strategizing started immediately. Even before we’d gotten up from our chairs, having shaken hands on the purely-pragmatic-no-weird-emotions-involved agreement to get married, she declared we should have friends over for dinner, to tell them we were dating. “That way, whenever we finally decide to reveal that we got married, it won’t be too much information for them to digest all at once,” she explained.

  “All right,” I said, still a little dizzy. Her nerves, which had been frayed moments earlier, were steadied by the drive to Be Organized About Things.

  SHE WAS A great little organizer. She’d sacked me on Monday, and by Wednesday evening she’d arranged a dinner party at her place for Friday.

  “Invite Danny,” she said over the phone.

  “I thought it would just be the museum crowd,” I said. I was home at last, lying on my canvas couch, staring up at the cottage-cheese-textured ceiling of my otherwise-tasteful Somerville pad, wondering what else could gobsmack me this week.

  “We met because of Danny,” she said. “He should be part of the mix.”

  This was indulgence on her part. None of my mates belonged in her world—I myself did not belong in her world, except that between us we were clever enough to slot me into it. Her museum friends (whom she now called “our museum friends,” suddenly making us a collective noun) had initials after their names in the MFA brochures; Danny worked for his uncle who was a building contractor, and counted himself lucky for the steady job. When I started at the museum, I hadn’t known oil from tempura, or a Homer from a Sargent, or a Chinese Whatever from a Japanese Whatever. And I hadn’t known shite about American history, not that I was expert now. If I wasn’t known as such a charmer, with the vocabulary of a crossword-puzzle addict, they’d have sussed me out soon enough and given me the deaf ear, I’m sure. I definitely didn’t want them giving Danny the deaf ear, he’s a sound bloke (sound track: Van Morrison, of course) and an absolute smashing drummer, really top shelf. But a shy type around strangers.

  “So call him, okay?” she was saying. “And since you’ve bragged about your Indian cooking for so long, now’s a great time to prove yourself. I think sag paneer and chicken tikka.”

&nbs
p; “Marriage is bringing out the boss in you. I’m afraid I’ll get fired again.”

  “I’ll be your sous-chef,” she offered, “then you can boss me. If you can pull off a full meal in my kitchen, maybe we can convince them we’ve been at this secret romance thing for a while.”

  “And what if I make a bollocks of it?”

  “The Irish aren’t known for their cooking anyhow,” she said cheerfully. In my mind’s eye I could see the shape of her mouth as she grinned. “Really, spend the next few nights at my place,” she insisted. “Get to know the kitchen.”

  I thought about her kitchen as I glanced about my sorry excuse for one. I loved to cook, but this place was brutal for it. Many of my friendships, especially since I’d stopped drinking, had been cemented by my inviting myself to make dinner for other people in their homes. I even had a backpack full of spices from a store in Central Square that I could throw on my shoulder and take with me on short notice. My superhero identity was Garam-Masala Man.

  But of course, just for the fun of it, I had to play hard-to-get first.

  “From dinner date to indentured servitude in what, forty-eight hours, is it? Very generous of you. May I make myself familiar with the sous-chef, too? Check out your pantry? Learn how to turn your oven on?”

  “Sure, you can even play with my appliances,” she purred, in total violation of the rule that Rory Gets All The Good Lines.

  “All right, then,” I said, domesticated.

  By the end of the week, I knew the intricacies of Sara’s oven and a lot of other things. I’m thrilled to say these included details I am too much the gentlemen to reveal, but they also included how much to feed the dog, how loud to leave the radio on in the morning for the dog, and how to stop the dog from begging: one pointed finger and a hiss of “Naughty!” Which still strikes me as a tragic waste of an excellent word.

  Sara’s kitchen was laid out smartly. Except for when the dog got underfoot in her quest to show me how well she tracked my every move, I could reach anything by taking a step or two, and it was very well equipped. By half-six Friday, I was in great shape—I’d made Indian rice salad, samosas and pakoras were ready for the deep fry, basmati was on the lowest simmer, and, not to brag, but the chicken tikka smelled divine. And I looked the business in Sara’s MFA apron, now smeared with turmeric and clove.

  “No,” I said to the dog for the 347th time, when she tried to hoover up the detritus of my industry. “Lie down.”

  She wagged her tail and gave me her quizzical look, like she had no idea what “lie down” meant unless it came with a treat or a head scratch. She got neither.

  As I stood there barefoot in the kitchen, I opened the windows as wide as they went, partly to cool off the room and let the steam escape, but also to allow the aromatic spices of my little feast to waft down the artsy sidewalks of Jamaica Plain, teasing the neighbors so they could drown in their own salivation. I was quite chuffed with myself. Now all I had to do was wait for everyone to arrive. And tell the dog, for the 348th time, not to hoover the crumbs off the kitchen floor.

  Sara’s—sorry, our—best friend from work, Lena, was a spark plug of a Filipino woman (sound track: salsa) with long, sleek hair who helped curate the Asian art collections. We’d not always hit it off so well, Lena and I—two competitive hotheads in the same building, even a huge museum, is a bit much. Finally we’d made a game of forever treading on each other’s ego, and slagging her became a true joy. We’d also invited a superstylish gay couple, Elliot and Steve, who adored Sara. They both did things I never really understood on the more business side of things, if an art museum even has a business side. (Sound track: cool jazz, a sort of Brubeck-Basie mix tape.)

  They all three arrived together with Sara, straight from work and dressed accordingly, unselfconscious in their day-job sleekness. Sara managed to look both professional yet not too conventional—she had a tailored but slightly offbeat chicness I just loved.

  I hate shaving. I always cut myself, and over the years have lost, to be honest, gallons of blood. I prefer having a beard but it’s just not practical in theatre. If you’ve grown it for the Shakespeare you’ve immediately got to shave it for the Coward, and then roles like McMurphy in Cuckoo’s Nest or half the roles in Synge—you just never know what the director expects. So clean-shaven, sadly, is simplest. I couldn’t recall if I’d shaved that morning, so as Sara was letting everyone in, I brushed the back of my hand across my chin to check how sandpapery I was. Wasn’t bad. When the guests’ attentions turned to me, I grinned widely and held out my arms to give all three of them my signature bear hug, turmeric stains be damned.

  “You know, we all saw this coming, this little thing between you two,” Lena said approvingly, in the bustle of Sara accepting gifts of wine and flowers and attaching little whatsits to the stems of the wineglasses and pouring the first round.

  “And you didn’t put her in protective custody?” I said in mock surprise.

  Elliot and Steve were making synchronized agreeing sounds in response to Lena’s approval. Then they immediately turned their full attention to the dog, who had been whimpering and spinning hysterically in anticlockwise circles since they had arrived.

  As I watched surreptitiously, these two blokes in fastidious nearly matching navy suits bent over and began to greet the dog as if all three of them were puppies. She kept shoving her muzzle against their faces, back and forth between them, like a hyperactive Dorothy recognizing all her kin when she returns to Kansas. Lena joined them with a joyful proclamation of Cody’s name, which sent the dog collapsing to the floor for a new round of Pat That Tarty Dog’s Belly For An Hour. Elliot and Steve cracked me up—watching the pair of them (Elliot tall and stoic, Steve short and jolly, a bit of Bert and Ernie) dote over the dog, almost weeping with the cuteness, and the cooing sounds they made . . . it was hilarious.

  “Come on, Elliot,” Steve said, “we’re getting a pooch.”

  “Only if we can find one like Cody,” Elliot said, and made a kissy face at the dog. I was a model of self-restraint and didn’t imitate him, but Jesus, you don’t know how hard that was.

  I glanced at Sara, who was smiling contentedly at them all. “How do they know her so well?” I asked.

  “I used to bring her to the museum with me,” she said. “When I first came back to work. I had to wean her into being alone.” With a pleased gesture, eyes dancing like a proud mother’s: “They really liked her. Obviously.”

  “She’s so big!” said Lena, as if proud of the dog for growing.

  “But she’s still just as cute! Aren’t you, Cody?” Elliot, who was usually very dignified.

  “What a cutie! What a cutie!” Steve, who was usually a little dignified.

  There was a tentative knock, and a stocky, redheaded Irishman entered carrying a six-pack of home-brewed ale and plunging the socioeconomic median of the room right down the toilet. The Initialed Ones scrambled to their feet sheepishly.

  Danny had not come straight from work, but was dressed almost as if he had—faded jeans, a brand-new Red Sox jersey, work boots. He did not look like he belonged on the same channel, let alone at the same dinner party, as the rest of them.

  I hid a grimace, wondering how this would go, but Sara was brilliant: she tendered hearty introductions all around, and coaxed Danny to speak enough words so they could be charmed by his mellifluous Donegal accent.

  I killed the flame under the basmati and plated the tikka. By the time I looked up, all the guests had an alcoholic beverage in one hand (white wine for those with initials after their names, home-brewed ale for Danny) and were cooing at the dog. Even Danny, who had never met the dog, was cooing at the dog.

  “Booze and puppies,” said Sara under her breath to me. “The best social lubricants in North America.”

  “In North Korea, too,” I added. “But for different reasons.”

  She stuck out her tongue and grinned. “Let’s get lots of photos tonight, on everyone’s phones,” she said. Lowe
ring her voice and dropping her cheek so that her face was turned away from the guests, she added, “We need to have visual evidence that predates the wedding.”

  As had been happening all week, a brief wave of panic splashed over me, and then I nodded, casually, before sucking down the rest of my seltzer.

  The evening, in brief, was a great success. In fact, I’d give it highest marks in the annals of Dinner Parties Hosted By Good People Who Are Lying To Their Guests About Their Motives. (If you grew up in a Catholic country, you’ll know that a lie of omission is still a lie.) My food was well received and our company all got along better than I’d expected. Danny won them all over with his drum solo of the knives on the condiments. Like I said: top-shelf drummer.

  We’d told all of them beforehand that we were dating, and encouraged the impression (sinful liars that we were) that it had been going on for a while but that we’d been hush-hush about it; only in light of my getting sacked, supposedly, did we decide we could finally spill the beans.

  “That was our original plan, too”—Steve grinned—“but then they had to go and legalize gay marriage before either of us could get ourselves fired, so we gave up on the hush-hush.”

  “And got seventeen gift certificates for the museum gift shop at our wedding,” Elliot added drily. They subtly cocked their fingers at each other, their little show of affection. With a sudden jolt, I realized I missed these people after just a few days away from them.

  “So I hear you’re the one who gets credit for our friends meeting,” said Elliot to Danny.

  “Aye, true enough, I am surely.” Danny laughed shyly, raising his bottle as if to toast himself. I envied him that ale—his fourth in sixty minutes, but who’s counting. “Didn’t I dare him to pull out the ax and bang out a wee tune on the steps up to the museum? Ach, sure, he was cleaning up in no time, I was watching from the horse statue and they were throwing money at him left, right, and center—imagine how much he’d have made if he were any good?”