by Lisa Patton
“I’m always up for fun,” I say slowly, sniffing away the last of my pathetic tears.
“Great. You know how he’s always reading everybody’s phone messages?”
“I caught him doing it again yesterday.”
“Here’s what I want you to do. I’m emceeing the Miss Memphis Pageant. Stan’s done it for the last five years in a row. For free. They’ve asked me to do it this year and I want to mess with him a little bit.”
“How?”
“Write out a message to me from Lyn Simpler at the Miss Memphis Pageant. In the memo line write, ‘Wants to know if a thousand dollars is okay for your talent fee.’”
“Johnny Dial, you are so bad.”
“Put the message on your desk where he’ll see it. He’s gonna go ape shit.” He falls out laughing again and that gets me going.
“Are you ever going to tell him it’s a joke?” My tears have given way to laughter and I can’t help but picture Stan’s poor face when he reads the part about the thousand dollars.
“Hell no.”
“As long as he doesn’t find out I’m the one who set him up I’ll do it. But only for you.”
“He ain’t gonna find that out. Just put out the bait. Trust me, he’ll fall for it hook, line, and sinker.”
* * *
From my radio, I hear Stan sign off. “And remember, Memphis, don’t forget to wish upon a star. You never know what kind of trouble you might get yourself into.” When he says the word “trouble,” he over emphasizes, making it sound enticing. Once, when I asked him what his sign-off meant, because honestly I had no idea, he said, in this condescending tone of his, “Leelee, think about it. You know how people say ‘Let me see what kind of trouble I can get into’? Meaning they’re looking for fun? That’s what it means.”
That’s a toe-curler if I’ve ever heard one. Why not sign off in a cool way like Johnny does. “Keep rockin’,” he says. Or Paul, the afternoon jock, who signs off by saying “Good night Dancing Jimmy, wherever you are.” Dancing Jimmy, God rest his soul, was a good-hearted drunken homeless man for many years who hung around Midtown in Memphis. He’d raise his arms out to his side and spin around as fast as he could, dancing “the helicopter” for beer money.
From the inside of my office, the sound of a vile, extra-loud snort-snot out in the hall, nauseates me to the point of gagging. It also alerts me to the fact that Stan will be standing at my desk in five, four, three, two, one second, “Hi Stan,” I say, without taking my eyes off my computer screen.
“How did you know it was me?”
There’s a big part of me that is dying to ask him if he needs a Kleenex. I mean isn’t that better than keeping all that gunk inside? “Lucky guess,” I say, turning around to smirk at him head-on.
“Well gorgeous, how are you this afternoon?” What do you mean how am I? I’ve just been slaughtered by Edward Maxwell, right in front of you, and you have the nerve to ask me how I am?
“I’m okay. How are you?” I say, wryly.
“Fantastic,” he says, and nods his head for emphasis.
Like clockwork, he strolls up behind me and peers over my shoulder. The bait is laid out before him on my desk, out from Johnny’s message pile, as if I haven’t filed it yet. Just like Johnny instructed, I had written out a message to him from Lyn Simpler at the Miss Memphis Pageant. In the memo line it reads, “Is 1K okay for your talent fee? Let her know by…” The rest is left blank. And right on top of the note I’ve laid my pen, as if I’m not finished writing.
“Sneaky” is Stan’s middle name. First he starts with a friendly back rub. The way he’s kneading my shoulders, not too hard, not too soft, feels pretty good. Before I know it my eyes droop and my chin drops to my chest. Truthfully, I’m starting to feel a wee bit guilty for my willingness to trick him. Sometime during the middle of the massage, I feel him lift one hand off my shoulder and lean down over me. He’s fingering the phony note from Miss Memphis when his other hand stops abruptly, his fingers digging deep into my shoulder blade.
“Ow, Stan. That hurts,” I say, rolling my chair away.
“Did you take that message?”
“What message?” Lord, this job is turning me into a big fat storyteller.
“The one to Dial from the Miss Memphis Pageant.”
I don’t say yes and I don’t say no. If I have to lie it might as well be by omission, for goodness sake.
“This is bullshit. Total bullshit.” He slaps his hand on the desk and storms out of my office toward Edward’s.
I am in so much trouble.
Now what? I will never let Johnny talk me into anything like this again as long as I live.
“That snake in the grass,” Stan says, two seconds later, after finding Edward’s door closed. “How does he manage to con them out of a grand for doing the exact same thing I’ve done for free? All these years?”
I’m keeping my mouth shut. He picks up my phone and starts dialing.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, panic setting in. I swear to Buddha I’m going to kill Johnny Dial for hoodwinking me into this.
“I’m calling Lyn Simpler.”
My mind is racing. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” My bottom lip hurts from biting down on it so hard.
“Why not?” Stan says, with the office phone in his hand.
“Because … you’ll look greedy. After they pay Johnny all that money, they’ll wonder why they did it. I mean, you’ll look like a saint. Think about it. Johnny will be the one they think less of. You’ll be more popular than you’ve ever been. I wouldn’t doubt it if they write an article about you in the paper, heralding your devotion to philanthropy.” Those words could have only been one thing. Divine inspiration.
He hangs up the phone. “You’ve got a point, Ms. Satterfield.”
“Of course I do. You be the rose, not the thorn.”
“Absolutely.”
“After all, you’ve said it yourself. You don’t like foolishness. You’re the good guy. The one who’s up-front and straightforward.”
“I will be there for them when they call me back next year. After they’ve realized the mistake they’ve made.”
“Atta boy, Stan. You’re making the right move,” I say, standing up, hoping he’ll get the hint to leave my office.
Somehow my edification of him replaces the guilt for what I’ve done. Sort of.
* * *
Right before leaving for the day, and after the phone calls have finally stopped, I have a minute to myself. Not a sound, not even the radio broadcast can be heard in the halls of FM 99. As usual, my thoughts drift onto Peter, especially after the day I’ve had. I miss him so much; it feels as if each of my freckles have been pinpricked. Leaning back in my chair, I exhale loudly, as if I can’t bear to take in another breath. The loss I’m feeling is not much different than what I felt when Daddy died. Or even Mama’s death—although, hers didn’t seem as hard at the time. At seventeen, after suffering through years of alcoholic rage, even a breast cancer diagnosis is not sufficient to wipe away a buildup of resentment.
Peter Owen would never have treated me disrespectfully. In fact, his behavior ranked on the opposite end of the spectrum from that of Edward Maxwell. He took care, beautiful care, of me. And right now, my heart feels like a knife has sliced one of its chambers and it can no longer bathe my lungs with oxygen.
When I hear Edward leaving early for his weekly “flying lesson,” I pull out a legal pad and reach inside my drawer for my nicest pen. Letters seem to be the only way I can talk to Peter and let him know how I feel.
Dear Peter,
I’m sitting here at my desk, at my new job, and I can’t help but think about you. It’s going very well, for the most part, but my new boss is, well I might as well say it, he’s a jerk. Can you believe it? After all the struggles I went through in Vermont I’m working with another Helga. I don’t mean to complain. The job has its upside. It’s fun and I’m enjoying most of the people I work with but it’
s nothing like it was when we worked together.
Did I ever tell you how much I had wanted to kiss you? When we were sitting by the fire that night at the inn, just a few weeks before I left, I could not stop looking at you. I’m sure you never noticed, but I was looking. Noticing every little thing about you. Your clothes—that ivory-colored corduroy shirt you had on, the one that you had rolled up at the cuffs, your faded blue jeans, the T-shirt you wore underneath. In fact, I noticed your arms that first day you came to the inn for an interview. I remember exactly what you had on—a T-shirt and blue jeans—and I could see the little veins in your forearms, so strong.
That night, when you came up from behind me and took my Corona and placed it on the table, my heart sunk down to my toes. Then, when you took my hand in yours and spun me around so we were face to face, I thought I would melt right into you. Could you hear my heart beating? And then the call came with an offer on the inn. I didn’t want to answer that phone. I wanted you to stop me. I wanted you to hold me. I could practically taste your lips. Don’t you know I would have loved to let it ring?
I had no choice but to come back home when I got the offer to sell the inn. What was I going to do? We weren’t committed to one another.
I hope you are doing well. If you get a chance I’d love for you to write me back.
Love always,
Leelee
I fold the letter and hide it inside my purse. It feels good to get it out, say the things that I’ve longed to tell him. I’ll just put it with the other unmailed letter in the drawer of my nightstand. Maybe I’ll mail it. Probably I won’t.
* * *
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be picking up my young daughters from after-care, Monday through Friday at five thirty in the afternoon after having left home at seven thirty in the morning, I’d have said, “Never in my lifetime.” But as John Lennon said, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” I was busy all right. Busy helping Baker make his other plans.
Once the girls are in the car, the thought of going home and dragging out pots and pans, spending an hour in front of a stove, and then cleaning up the mess, makes me consider Bolivar, the loony bin, as a viable option.
I’m tired. I’m lonely. And if truth be told, I’m depressed—an emotion that surfaces very rarely for me. Who wouldn’t be depressed after the berating I received from Edward? And in front of Stan of all people.
When a woman is depressed what does she do? Besides stuffing her face? She goes shopping of, course. Most women might go to the mall, but this girl is headed straight for the pound. I’ve been without a dog long enough.
When we pull up to the Memphis Animal Shelter, the girls bound out of our car. I’ve been thinking about another Yorkie and I’m still not sure that I won’t do that in the end, but Alice about has me talked into adopting a mutt. Virgy thinks I should get a lab or a golden but I want my pooch to be able to sleep with me. Especially now that I’ve got the bed to myself. Virginia has always teased me about my yappy little dogs, so this time I’m thinking of going up a size. As much as I’d like to have a pedigreed pet, I’ve started to come around to the animal shelter motto. Riley would be so proud.
The moment we walk inside the front door, I’m knocked over by the smell. Issie lets go of my hand and pinches her nose. Sarah tugs on me to lean down and puts her hand aside her mouth. “Maybe we should go somewhere else,” she says, whispering in my ear.
Squatting down between the two of them, I pull each daughter close to my face. “Don’t worry about it. This is just the way all doggie shops smell.” After letting the lady at the desk know we’re here to adopt a dog, we only have to wait five minutes before a woman in uniform arrives to take us back to where the dogs are kept. The funny thing is, the cage area smells better than the reception area.
The girls and I walk hand in hand following the woman in uniform down a long hall. Down the first aisle, twenty sets of black eyes seem to be saying, “Take me home, Mommy. I’ll be a good girl.” The faces of the dogs are almost too hard to bear—big black eyes and noses, long pink tongues hanging out the sides, ears flopped over, others poking straight up, brown, black, white, spotted … I don’t even want to think about the fact that these beautiful little faces might not make it past the weekend. It makes me all the more determined to take home a small bundle of joy today.
It’s nice to see that each cage has plenty of room. Divided into two parts, the front, where the food is kept, is for viewing and there’s another part of the cage behind with a bed. Although each animal is separated, they can still peer at one another.
“Can we get a puppy?” Sarah says. “All these dogs are big.”
“No honey, we can’t get a puppy,” I say. “I wish we could but I don’t have time for house breaking.”
“What does ‘house break’ mean?” Issie asks.
“Potty training for dogs,” I say.
The woman in uniform overhears me. “We can find you a dog that does his business outside. Guaranteed.”
“Thank you,” I say, before turning back to the girls. “We don’t have to get a big dog, but she has to be an adult. She must know how to potty outside.”
“Princess Grace doo-dooed inside when we lived in Vermont,” Issie says.
“Of course she did. But that’s only because she had no choice. Would you want to put your bottom down on four feet of freezing cold snow?”
Issie and Sarah both laugh. “No,” they say at the same time.
“Well, Gracie didn’t want to either.” The Willingham Gazette found a new subscriber the day I moved to town. Spreading out newspaper in every corner of our apartment was the least I could do for the poor old thing. “Our new dog has to use the backyard at our new house. That’s all there is to it.”
All kinds of adorable faces beckon us to take them home. I imagine each one saying, “Pick me, please. Oh pretty please. I’ll make you happy. I’ll be the loyal one in your life if you’ll just give me a chance.” Issie and Sarah stop at every cage claiming the one inside is the one they want.
About halfway down the second aisle, in the corner of one of the cages, is a smaller cream-colored, shaggy dog with floppy ears and big black eyes. She can’t weigh more than twelve pounds. Although she doesn’t come up to us like the others have, for some reason just the sight of her, all shaggy and overgrown, makes me swoon.
“Is she a puppy?” I ask the lady.
“Nope. It’s full grown.”
“Any idea what kind she is?” Her fur is pitifully misshaped but I could give her a good clip and she’d look like a beauty.
“Let’s see, looks like a terrier mix to me,” the shelter worker says. “I can tell by her curly tale.”
“Can we see her? Or is she a him?” I ask.
“Let’s see here.” The woman checks a card fastened to the cage. “It’s a him.”
“Oh, I don’t know about a him,” I say, disappointed. “I’ve never had a boy dog.”
“I would like a boy dog, actually,” Sarah says. “He could be my little brother.” When I see the longing in her sapphire eyes I reconsider. I imagine this guilt thing, as a single mother, won’t ever change.
“Okay, we can look at him,” I say.
The woman opens the cage, attaches a leash to the little dog’s collar and pulls on him. He slides on all fours out of the cage and once outside, cowers.
“Ohh, he’s so scared.” I bend down on my knees and my daughters do the same.
“Come here, baby,” I say.
“Come here, baby,” Issie says.
“All you do is copy everybody,” Sarah tells her. “Copycat.”
I press my lips together and toss Sarah a stern gaze. “Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, barely audible.
“Sorry who for what?”
“I’m sorry, Issie, for saying ‘you copy.’” If her tone dictated the amount of sincerity in her heart, it’s not much of an apology. I suppose i
t will have to do for now.
We all reach out our hands to the little dog. “Can we play with you?” I say.
After several seconds the little pooch edges closer, finally close enough for a little pat on the head. He licks my hand.
“He must have been abused. You can tell by the way he cowers,” the officer says.
“That is terrible. Who in the world could have hurt this little man?” I pick him up and place him in my lap, kissing the top of his head.
Sarah says, “Can I hold him?”
“Sure, be very gentle,” I say, and hand him over.
“I want to hold him,” Issie says, and strains to pick up the little guy. He wriggles away from Sarah’s lap. Undaunted, she goes after him again. He never snaps and seems not to mind being chased.
“I was holding him,” Sarah says, picking him back up.
“It’s still Sarah’s turn, Issie. Just wait another minute and then you can hold him, too,” I tell her.
“Does he have a name?” I ask the lady.
“Nope, we don’t give them names, only numbers. It would make it too hard when we have to…”
With eyes bulging and lips pursed, I leer at her in a desperate attempt to stop her from saying another word.
She reads me loud and clear. Instead of finishing her sentence, though, the officer goes mute. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s scared to say another word.
After pondering his fate for only a moment I ask, “Is he close?”
She nods her head up and down, slightly pursing her lips.
That’s all I need to hear. “What do you think, girls? Should we take him home? It might be nice to have a boy around the house.”
An hour later, after waiting for the microchip to be inserted into our new addition’s shoulder blade, the adoption papers are signed and I’ve written out a check for sixty-five dollars. It ensures he’s been neutered, flea-dipped, dewormed, and vaccinated.
Once we’re in the car, the little shy dog who’d cowered away from us jumps back and forth between the seats as if he’s finally been emancipated. His little back legs dig into my left thigh, as his tail spins faster than a whirlybird, and he peers out the driver’s side window as if to bid adieu. Once he finally tires from darting all around the car, he curls up on my lap and licks my elbow. “What should we name him?” I ask the girls, while stroking the top of his head.