Love, Luck, and Little Green Men: A Contemporary Romance

by Diane Kelly

  Ma scraped her crumbs into the trash, then slid the plate into the sink to soak. She retrieved the bag of dog food from the panty, filled Blarney’s stainless steel bowl with kibble, and set it on the floor in front of him. I held my breath. The dog turned his head away as if the smell revolted him. Not a good sign. Damn. He’d seemed to be doing fine earlier.

  Riley eyed his dog for a moment before turning his anxious gaze on me. “Blarney’s not eating.”

  “Maybe his hemorrhoids are acting up again,” I offered. It’s not an outright lie if you preface your words with “maybe,” right? “It may take a while before he’s back to his old self.”

  Ma bent down and took another look at the dog’s backside. “Still don’t see ‘em.” She left the room and returned a moment later with a tube of Preparation H. She knelt down behind the dog and began rubbing it on Blarney’s hindquarters. The dog gave her a look of surprise, stood, and trotted away, his gait slightly off.

  “Maybe that’ll help,” Ma said.

  I knew it wouldn’t. The pills didn’t seem to be helping much either. Only surgery could help at this point.

  “Coffee, Cormac?” my mother asked, holding up the glass pot.

  Da nodded. Still no bars.

  Ma fixed herself a mug of coffee and set another on the table in front of my father. He looked up at her, and though he said nothing, his smile showed his appreciation.

  My parents were a perfect match, true soul mates. They shared a close connection, an understanding beyond that which most married couples achieved. Truth be told, I envied their relationship. Even as a teenager, when most kids were disgusted by any show of affection between their parents, I wasn’t bothered by their hand-holding during mass, their lingering good-bye kisses when my father set off for work in the morning. I also knew exactly what they were doing on those Saturday afternoons when they dropped us kids off at the bowling alley so they could have the afternoon alone. Knowing they still found each other attractive, enjoyed each other’s company, gave me a feeling of security.

  “Ma,” I asked as she took her first sip. “Did you know someone back in Ireland named Dermot Dunphy?”

  Ma choked on her coffee. She leapt from the table, went to the counter, and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser next to the dish drainer. She stood there for a moment, the paper towel pressed to her mouth, her back to the rest of us at the table.

  I looked at my dad. He stared at my mother’s back. His expression seemed strained, but that could mean nothing. Since his stroke, he had lost muscle control and his expressions were often difficult to read.

  After a moment, Ma turned to face me. She twisted the paper towel in her hands, an awkward smile on her face. “Why do you ask, dear?” There was a slight quaver in her voice, probably from gagging on the coffee.

  I shrugged. “You seemed upset when you read the obituaries in the Examiner yesterday. I saw them today when I was using the paper today to dye shoes. There was a man named Dermot Dunphy listed. Since he was from Ballincollig, I thought maybe you knew him.”

  “Aye, we knew ‘im,” my father said, finding his voice, all bars up and running now. “Dunphy ran a shoe repair shop in our old neighborhood.”

  “Like me. That’s a coincidence, huh?”

  Da’s eyes cut to Ma’s. Neither of them responded.

  I looked from one to the other. “Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Our paths crossed a few times,” Ma said, her voice flat. “Inevitable in a small town like Ballincollig.”

  Ma slid back into her spot at the table. Though she said nothing, I sensed there was more to the story. I also sensed she didn’t want to tell me. Neither did my dad. I knew from experience not to push them. As a child, I’d been told numerous times to keep my nose where it belonged. They were loving parents but totally old school in their parenting style. Oh, well. Even if there were more to the story, it didn’t concern me, right? After all, I’d never met this Dunphy fellow. Who was he to me?

  “How’s the step routine coming?” Ma asked.

  Riley answered before I could. “Great. I get to lift Brittany up over my head and look up her skirt.”

  “Riley!” Ma cried, her voice back in full force now. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I know I should be,” Riley said, shrugging innocently. “But I’m not. What can I say? I’m a red-blooded teenage boy and she’s hot.”

  My father laughed into his coffee, his mug shaking, dripping onto the table.

  I pointed at my son. “Next time I’ll leave that stunt out of the choreography.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

  As Riley and I climbed out of my car in the dimly lit parking lot of the Eastside Recreation Center, I pulled a can of silicone water guard spray from my purse. I would have felt safer with the shotgun, but I couldn’t very well tote the weapon along with me. There were laws against it. But there weren’t any laws about silicone water guard. The spray was from my stockroom and was intended to form a waterproof seal on leather shoes, but I knew from experience the stuff would burn your eyes if you weren’t careful with it. If that little green man attempted to attack us here, he’d be sorry. Waterproof, but sorry.

  Riley held the glass door open for me as we walked into the lobby of the rec center. The lobby was square and filled with furniture that could best be described as functional. At the back of the lobby was a small administrative office with a customer service window that looked out onto the lobby. A young woman sat at the window poring over a thick college textbook. Managerial accounting. Been there, done that. Got a B plus. Of course that was right before I’d gotten pregnant.

  Glass panels formed the two side walls of the lobby, giving a view into the gym on the left and the multi-purpose room on the right. The multi-purpose room was rented by the hour. The room served alternately as a meeting space, a craft room, and, tonight, Flaherty’s Footworks dance studio. For the next three hours, the space was all mine. Not at all the studio I’d dreamed of owning, but we have to take what we can get, don’t we?

  As we walked toward the room, a threesome of sweaty teenage boys wearing matching blue basketball shorts and jerseys came out of the gym and headed toward the water fountain. They chuckled and elbowed each other aside to be the first to get a drink. Each of them was as tall as Riley though all appeared to be at least a year or two older. I’d seen them around before playing basketball in the gym. I’d also seen them looking through the glass windows of the multi-purpose room during my dance lessons, checking out the girls in my class.

  One of the three, a white boy with a raging case of acne, glanced over at Riley and snorted. “Look who’s here. The lord of the dance.”

  One of the others, a black boy with a huge fake diamond in his earlobe, chuckled and muttered, “Homo.”

  In a split second, Riley’s duffle bag was on the floor and he was in the middle of the three boys, chest-to-chest with the black one.

  “I’m not gay,” Riley spat. “Bring me your girlfriend and I’ll prove it.”

  Their exchange disturbed me on several levels. The other boys stepped closer, surrounding Riley. The little green man no longer seemed like much of a threat compared to these testosterone-driven high school boys. Three against one was hardly a fair fight. And there’d be no way I could break them up if they got into it. Not unless I used my waterproofing spray, and that caustic stuff could cause permanent lung damage to Riley. Okay for my stalker, not for my son.

  Heart pounding, I dropped my bag and set down my CD player, glancing around for a male staff member. We were the only people in the lobby. Damn!

  Before I could move I heard the front door bang open behind me and a flash of gray sailed past—Brendan, dressed in his gym pants and a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out. Coming to my rescue, yet again. Thank goodness!

  All four of the boys were taller than Brendan, but he was broader and had far more hard muscle. He shouldered his way into the circle and put o
ne hand on Riley’s chest, another on the chest of the boy who’d challenged Riley, forcing them apart. “Cut the crap.” Brendan looked at the black boy. “Save your attitude for the basketball court.” He turned to Riley. “Save yours for the dance floor.”

  The boys jutted out their chins defiantly but broke up. The threesome returned to the gym, glancing back at Riley and grumbling under their breath. Riley shot them a death glare until the gym door swung closed behind them.

  “Shake it off, son.” Brendan held up his palm.

  Riley exhaled loudly, letting off steam, and turned to Brendan. “Dude.” He responded to Brendan’s raised hand by giving him a high five, followed by a fisted knuckle bump. The two then shared a one-armed offset half-hug, the grand finale of their standard affectionate-yet-manly greeting. Riley grabbed his duffle bag and headed into the dance room.

  “Thanks,” I said to Brendan. Amazing how quickly and easily he’d defused the situation.

  He gave me a wink. “Boys will be boys.”

  “And boys will take years off their mothers’ lives.” As much as I loved my son and tried to be in tune to him, his behavior and feelings were often a mystery to me. I’d never been a fourteen-year old boy, obviously, and could be absolutely clueless at times. Lucky for me and Riley, Brendan bridged the gap between us.

  Brendan picked up my dance bag and CD player and we followed Riley into the room.

  Riley and Brendan began gathering up the chairs and tables spread about the room and stacking them out of the way in the corner. As they cleared the space, I pulled my hair up into a quick, makeshift bun and slid out of my hoodie to start warming up. Once the room was cleared, Riley and Brendan sat down with me on the scuffed parquet floor to stretch.

  Over the next few minutes, my students trickled in, depositing their bags on the wall by the door, changing into their pink ballet slippers, joining us in our stretching exercises. Though I had a handful of teenage students, the majority of my ballet, tap, and jazz students were in the five- to ten-year-old age range. Most came from low-to-middle-income families unable to afford the higher cost of dance classes at the more prestigious studios. I liked to think my classes gave the parents more bang for their buck. I was just as experienced as the instructors at the name-brand studios and just as demanding. But with my lower overhead, I could charge less for my classes. Of course I lost a few of my more serious students each year to the more-established studios, but I couldn’t blame them for wanting to dance in nicer digs. The ballet bars at the fancy studios didn’t threaten to fall off the wall, and their mirrors were good quality, not like the cheap, warped dollar store mirrors I’d hung on the walls of the multi-purpose room myself because the city had no room for them in its budget. Besides, the bigger studios put on elaborate productions in the comfy auditoriums of local colleges. My annual recital was put on at the cramped Knights of Columbus hall for a supportive though uncomfortable audience sitting on dented metal folding chairs. Still, we did the best we could with what we had, and we had a lot of fun doing it.

  Britney wandered in, her brown hair pulled into high, bouncy pony tail. She wore a bright red dance skirt over a tight red leotard that showed off her slim, girlish figure. The nail polish on her fingertips precisely matched the color of her clothing. Oh, to have that kind of time to accessorize. She shot Riley a shy smile before she slid into place on the floor next to him to begin stretching her hamstrings. He leaned toward her and the two whispered to each other, laughing softly, conspiratorially. Young love. Been there, done that, too. Flunked that one. Seemed love was much harder for me than managerial accounting.

  Next to me, Brendan had his legs out in front of him, his fingers on the toes of his tennis shoes, stretching his calves. I tried not to notice how his firm biceps flexed as he stretched, but that’s the thing about trying. It doesn’t always end in success. Of course it helps if you try hard, which admittedly I was not.

  Brendan turned to me, his eyes narrowed, his face serious. “Any further signs of the stalker?”

  I shook my head. “After the scare Blarney gave him, I doubt he’ll come back.” At least I hoped he wouldn’t come back. But I also knew I couldn’t count on my sick dog to defend me if the guy returned.

  “He better be gone for good. Because if I get my hands on that twerp, he’ll be sorry he was born.”

  Brendan’s words gave me a warm flush inside. His protectiveness flattered me, made me feel feminine and cared for, like I was a princess and he was my knight in shining armor. Or at least my knight in sweat pants. We were too old for such fairy tales, of course. But there’s nothing wrong with a little daydreaming, is there?

  “I’m going with you in the morning when you open up your shop,” Brendan said. “I want to check everything out, make sure things are okay. I don’t have to be anywhere until ten. I’ll hang out with you until then.”

  “Thanks, Bren. I’d appreciate that.”

  I hated to burden him, but I wasn’t about to reject his offer. I’d feel much safer if Brendan were with me. I’d also enjoy his company. Maybe there was an upside to being stalked.

  I shifted on the floor, crooking my right leg behind me and bending over my left. “How did things go at juvie today?”

  Brendan released his toes and shook his head. “Rough day.”

  Brendan knew all about rough days. The oldest of five children, Brendan had grown up in a tiny third-floor flat in the slums of Dublin. As Brendan put it, when his father wasn’t knocking his mother up, he was knocking her down. At the age of sixteen, Brendan had seen enough. He’d demanded his father stop hitting his mother. His father had told him to “mind his own feckin’ business.” When Brendan stepped in front of his mother to protect her, his father grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the radiator, breaking Brendan’s nose and chipping his tooth, a lasting reminder of his brutal legacy. But he’d land few more punches that day. Not only was Brendan younger and faster, he played on a rugby team and was in great physical shape. Brendan won the fight and ran his father off, thinking he’d be his mother’s hero.

  Instead, she’d screamed at her son. “What have you done? How am I going to feed five children on my own?”

  Hit first by his father then by reality, Brendan dropped out of high school to support the family. He took a job at the Dublin dockyards, loading ships with goods made in the city’s many factories. He developed strong, broad shoulders and a huge chip on his shoulder to add to the chipped tooth. He was angry at his biological father for letting the family down, and he was angry at his heavenly Father for letting them down, too. Why had all those Catechism lessons been for, all those masses he’d attended? The God he’d worshipped, the one who was supposed to love without condition, had forsaken his family, made his mother suffer, forced Brendan to bear the burden of his father’s sins. If not for his mother insisting he continue to attend mass, Brendan would have turned his back on God entirely.

  But everything changed one Easter. As the priest read the scriptures relating to the crucifixion, it dawned on Brendan he had something in common with God’s son. Brendan bore the weight of his father’s sins, but Jesus bore the weight of everyone’s sins. And He hadn’t been a resentful jackass about it. Heck, He’d let a bunch of morons nail Him to a cross in order to achieve his aims. Inspired, Brendan sacked up, set his self-pity aside, and earned his diploma in night school. Soon after, he began attending seminary part-time in the evenings. It took him twice as long as the full-time theology students to graduate, but he did it. By then, the youngest of his siblings was ready to move out on her own. Brendan became a priest and continued to live with his mother for a short time until her early death from cancer. On her deathbed, she’d given him a long-overdue thanks for giving her life back to her and taking care of the family.

  I reached over and gave Brendan’s arm a squeeze, as much to offer support and reassurance as to simply take advantage of an opportunity to touch him. “I’m sorry you had a rough day, Bren. But if anyone can hel
p those kids at juvie, God knows it’s you.”

  He gave me a soft smile. “I hope so.”

  I glanced around the room. All of my students had arrived by then and stretched their muscles. I stood, brushed the floor dust from my pants, and loaded Tchaikovsky into the CD player. After pushing the play button, I clapped my hands twice to get the attention of the class. “To the bar everyone. We’ve got a lot to work on tonight.”

  When the classical music kicked in, we began our warm up at the ballet bar, working first on our rond de jambes. I stepped away from the bar and slowly walked down the row of students, straightening an arm here, turning a foot there, correcting their minor flaws, attempting to mold them into perfect prima donnas.

  “Derrieres tucked under,” I called as the group ran through a series of plies and grand plies, giving Riley a swat on the backside when he intentionally stuck his rear out.

  After we completed the bar exercises, the dancers lined up in two groups along the far wall, performing various progressions two-by-two across the floor, including pas de bourrées and chaînés followed by jetés and ending in an arabesque. I watched intently from the corner, correcting their technique as needed. “Keep your knees straight on your piqué turns, dancers.” I also offered encouragement. “The cabrioles are looking much better. Good work, everyone.”

  Riley and Brendan both managed to complete the ballet maneuvers in a way that was at the same time graceful and athletic. Mikhail Baryshnikov had nothing on them. Of course, unlike Baryshnikov, Riley and Brendan refused to prance around in clingy, revealing tights. Fine with me. Riley’d sooner die than display his so-called “junk” for all the world to see, and I didn’t particularly want any other women checking out Brendan’s bulge. Not that I had any claim to his bulge, but still.

  As we ran through our ballet routine, I was, as always, painfully aware of Brendan’s presence. Engaging in physical activity with him, albeit indirectly, felt intimate somehow. I had to fight to keep my eyes off him and on the students who’d paid to attend my class. Not so easy to do, especially when he stood nearby, panting from exertion, his gym clothes sticking to his sweat-slicked body. I could think of several other ways I’d like to work him into a sweat, all of which involved our bare derrieres and one of which ended in a naked arabesque.