Chow Down

by Laurien Berenson

  Actually, though I’d seen Simone interacting with the other contestants throughout the day, for the most part, she’d left Faith and me alone. At the time, I hadn’t thought much about it, but now I found myself wondering if she’d avoided us on purpose. A signal to the rest of the committee about whom she favored and whom she didn’t? Or maybe she’d simply wanted to dodge my propensity for asking questions.

  “Now Cindy . . .” Allison was still talking. Apparently I didn’t even have to respond to keep the flow of words coming. “She’s someone I think I could really be friends with. She loved watching Ginger play with her ball. Did you know she has a Border Collie named Gus that’s a disc dog? How cool is that?”

  While Allison chattered and bounced beside me, I was leaning against the back of the seat with my eyes half-closed. Faith had given up any pretense of interest in our surroundings. The front half of her body was draped across my lap and she was sound asleep, her body rising and falling with each rhythmic snore.

  “They all have dogs,” I said. Adding a small amount of input to the conversation seemed like the polite thing to do.

  “All who?”

  “The judges. They all have dogs, not just Cindy.”

  “I guess that makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, why work for a dog food company if you don’t like dogs? That would be counter-intuitive. Simone, let’s see, I could picture her with a Maltese.”

  “Pomeranian,” I said.

  Allison giggled. “That fits. Now Doug, he ought to have something sleek and kind of sexy. Maybe a German Shorthaired Pointer.”

  I tipped my head her way. “Sleek and sexy?”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “What’s to think? Just use your eyes, for Pete’s sake.”

  If I opened my eyes fully, I thought, they’d be staring at Allison’s husband who, just for the record, was not very sleek and sexy. More like rumpled and comfortable.

  “I’m a newlywed,” I said. “I’ve stopped looking.”

  Allison reached over and patted my arm. “Time passes,” she said. “You’ll get over that.”

  I hoped not.

  “Doug has a chocolate Lab,” I said. “His kids named it Hershey.”

  “Doug is married?”

  Allison sounded surprised, and maybe a tad disappointed. Which made me think that maybe we shouldn’t be having this conversation almost within earshot of her husband.

  “I believe he’s divorced.”

  “Ahh, that makes more sense.”

  That comment got my attention. I actually opened my eyes. “Why?”

  “Because, well . . . you know.”

  No, I didn’t. I hate it when that happens.

  “I know what?”

  Allison leaned closer. Her voice, already low, dropped to a whisper. “Don’t you get the impression that he might have something going on with Simone?”

  Doug and Simone? I hadn’t picked up on that at all.

  My gaze went reflexively to the front of the bus. The pair in question were seated on opposite sides of the aisle. Simone was working on her Blackberry. Doug was talking on his cell phone. Whatever Allison thought she knew, I still wasn’t seeing it.

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Allison nodded. “They’ve got vibes.”

  “Vibes,” Bill snorted from across the aisle. I guessed he had been listening in. Maybe this was his retaliation for the “sleek and sexy” comment. “Don’t pay any attention to her. She loves all that psychic, woo-woo, mumbo jumbo stuff. She won’t even get out of bed in the morning until she’s consulted her horoscope.”

  “It’s a valuable forecast of what the day contains,” Allison said primly.

  “It’s a crock,” her husband replied.

  I was more inclined to his way of thinking. Horoscopes were fun to read, but I wouldn’t plan my life around them.

  “You just don’t get it,” said Allison.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bill agreed equitably.

  “That leaves Chris,” Allison said thoughtfully. The advertising director was sitting with the other judges up front. Allison gazed at the back of his head with a small frown. “I’m not sure I see him with a dog at all. Maybe a cat or a gerbil.”

  “A ferret,” said Bill. “Or possibly a hamster.”

  Trust me, coming from ardent dog people, these were insults.

  “What’s wrong with Chris?” I asked.

  Bill shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Miss Woo-Woo over there is the one with all the answers.”

  Miss Woo-Woo, surprisingly, didn’t seem offended by the title. I was guessing she’d heard it before.

  “Don’t you think Chris is just the tiniest bit . . . strange?” she asked.

  “In what way?”

  “For one thing, he skulks.”

  “He’s a skulker,” Bill agreed with a nod.

  “What does that mean?” I directed the question to Allison, since she was the one with the answers.

  “He’s sneaky,” she whispered. “Always kind of popping up where you least expect him. And he doesn’t like Ginger.”

  “That’s the main problem, isn’t it?” said Bill. “He’s been like that all along. Even the first time we met. It was like he never gave her a fair shot. Now I ask you, how can you like someone who doesn’t like your dog? What would be the point?”

  Words to live by, there.

  “I think Chris likes small dogs,” I said.

  “Like that’s an excuse,” Allison sniffed. “I’m telling you, there’s something the matter with him.”

  Could be they were right. At any rate, I wasn’t about to argue. I was too tired for that. Besides, all available evidence pointed to the fact that there had to be something wrong with somebody in our group. Considering how little I’d accomplished thusfar in narrowing down the list, Chris seemed as likely a suspect as anybody.

  On that happy thought, I leaned back, followed my Poodle’s example, and let the motion of the bus lull me to sleep.

  19

  Summer has always been my time to kick back, take things easy, and enjoy life for a while. This annual vacation from most responsibilities allows me to recharge my internal batteries. It prepares me to tear into the upcoming school year with the enthusiasm and direction that my students might be lacking. As a side benefit, I also get to indulge in one of my favorite luxuries: sleeping late in the morning.

  At least that’s the way things are supposed to work.

  But this summer something had gone horribly wrong. The demands that the Chow Down contest had placed on my time and energy were much more wide-reaching than I’d bargained for. When Faith and I arrived home that night from the day’s jaunt into the city on behalf of Champions Dog Food, I was tired, I was cranky, and I needed a break.

  I pulled into the garage, opened the door to the house, and Faith went bounding on ahead. The Poodle, predictably, had recovered her high spirits after snoozing in the bus on the way back. She couldn’t wait to see what sort of new excitement might be waiting for us at home.

  I could hear the other dogs racing to come and greet us. They barked in welcome, and I picked out Faith’s distinctive voice as she replied. I dragged myself into the kitchen, tossed purse, keys, and cell phone onto the counter, and sank into the nearest chair.

  “Long day?” asked Sam. He’d followed in the Poodles’ wake. Who needs good ears when you have a canine security system?

  “Very.”

  I rested my arms on the table, put my head down, and closed my eyes. After a minute, I realized that Sam hadn’t responded to my comment.

  “Did I say that out loud or did I just imagine it?” I asked, voice muffled by my arms.

  “No, I heard you.” Sam was smiling; I could hear it in his voice. “I was waiting for details.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “That bad?”

  “That long, anyway. Remind me again why I want Faith to be the
face of Chow Down dog food.”

  Sam pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. “Because it’s important to your son?”

  “Oh, right. I knew there was something.”

  “I have an idea.”

  “Perfect,” I mumbled into my sleeve. “One of us should be using his brain.”

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and take a bubble bath? Meanwhile, I’ll get some coals started in the hibachi. By the time they’re ready to cook, I bet you’ll feel much better.”

  Sam had had a gas grill until a few months earlier when I’d given it away to my ex-husband in a sudden fit of inspiration. Long story there. Suffice it to say that we were now making do with a more primitive arrangement.

  “That doesn’t sound half bad. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m leaving you with all the work.”

  “I think I can cope. Davey’ll help.” Sam got up, placed his hands on my arms and pulled me to my feet. He turned me in the direction of the hallway that led to the stairs and gave me a gentle push. “Go.”

  “Yes sir.”

  He watched me walk away. “You’re cute when you’re submissive.”

  “Don’t get too used to it,” I said.

  Davey’s and my former house, an older abode in a busy family neighborhood, sported plumbing and fixtures that had been built in the middle of the previous century. He and I shared a bathroom with a small, no-frills bathtub that doubled as a shower. Hot water was supplied by an economy water heater that worked well enough for brief showers but was unpredictable when it came to long, luxurious baths.

  Consequently, moving to the new house with its state-of-the-art master bathroom and spa had been a revelation. Now I had a separate, glassed-in shower stall and a spacious tub with a whirlpool that could comfortably seat three. There were ledges for plants and candles, and all the hot water I could possibly want. The only thing lacking in my life was the time to relax and enjoy it all.

  When I reached the top of the staircase, a turn to the right would have taken me toward Sam’s and my room. To the left lay Davey’s bedroom. Aside from a few minutes over breakfast, I hadn’t seen my son all day. It didn’t take me two seconds to decide which way I wanted to go.

  Davey’s door was open but he wasn’t there. Furnished when the house had belonged to Bob, the room had bunk beds, a ceiling fan painted like an airplane propeller, and posters of the hottest cars Davey could find. Two dresser drawers hung partly open, and a pair of dirty socks had been kicked under the night table. The wooden train set we’d erected in one corner seemed to have been involved in a catastrophic collision with a fleet of matchbox cars. In short, everything about the space made it clear that there was a growing boy in residence.

  I backed out of the doorway and wandered into the bedroom next door. By contrast, it was nearly empty and mostly serene. The walls were painted a sunny shade of yellow. Eyelet curtains framed the windows. Sam and I had pictured this room as a nursery. Since the need had yet to arise, we hadn’t purchased any furniture.

  The only two things the room currently held were a Shaker rocking chair, with a well-worn cushion, and a wooden toy chest, hand-painted with scenes of small white bunnies playing in a meadow. Both pieces were left over from when Davey had been a baby. Both had been a cherished part of his earliest routines.

  Looking at them brought back a flood of happy memories of those long, quiet hours spent in my son’s company. I sighed softly and hoped that soon there’d be another child with whom to continue the tradition.

  Without stopping to think, as if the need was as natural as breathing itself, I walked across the room and sat down in the rocking chair. My toe pushed against the polished floor and the rocker began to move gently back and forth. The sway and the rhythm were enormously comforting.

  My shoulders relaxed. My neck unknotted. A half-formed smiled curled drowsily across my lips.

  “Hey Mom!”

  Davey came barreling into the room like a runner rounding third base. His sandals slid on the hardwood floor; his legs shot out from under him. His hip hit the boards hard enough to make me wince, but Davey came up smiling.

  “Hey what?” I asked.

  “Sam-Dad said you were taking a bath. What are you doing in here?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Ugh. Thinking is for school.”

  “No,” I said, “thinking is for whenever you want to feel smart.”

  “School,” Davey repeated. “Definitely. Sam wanted me to ask you if lamb chops were okay for dinner?”

  “Fine by me,” I said. Anything I didn’t have to cook myself tended to be fine by me.

  “And he asked me to bring you a glass of wine. Something yellow.”

  “White,” I corrected, noting that his hands were empty. “Chardonnay?”

  Davey nodded. “But it looks yellow. I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

  “I bet I will.” Sam was pretty well briefed on my preferences when it came to white wines. “Where did you put it?”

  “Next to the bathtub. That’s where you were supposed to be.” The clear-cut logic of an eight-year-old on a mission.

  Davey got up, stepped over to the toy chest, and lifted the lid. He peered inside. “It’s empty.”

  “You knew that. It’s been empty for years.”

  “Yeah, well.” Davey shrugged. He was ever hopeful when it came to the magical appearance of new toys.

  “That’s a baby chest. Your toys are in your closet and your desk and your shelves. You have too many to fit in there.”

  “We need another baby.”

  “I know,” I agreed.

  He closed the lid and sat down on the box, settling in for a chat. “How long does it take?”

  “That depends.” Too bad he hadn’t brought my wine into the nursery, I thought. It was beginning to look like we might be there a while.

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re asking about the length of the pregnancy itself or how long it might take before that to get pregnant.”

  “Both.”

  My son. Ever curious. What could I say? I supposed he took after me.

  “Women are pregnant for nine months, give or take a little.”

  “Wow.” Davey’s eyes widened. “That’s a long time. Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” I said with a smile. “I had you, remember?”

  “Yeah, but that was a while ago. Maybe you forgot. Faith was only pregnant for two months when she had Eve.”

  “Dogs are different. Their gestation is sixty-three days.”

  “And she had a whole litter, not just one.”

  “Yes, but human babies take more time to develop. Were any of those puppies as smart as you are?”

  Davey thought about that. I knew he was debating Eve’s mental acuity. Sad to say, I’d known people who weren’t as smart as that dog.

  “Maybe,” he decided finally.

  “Maybe not.”

  I reached over and gave him a nudge between the ribs. Davey dodged away, laughing. He’s terribly ticklish if you know the right spots. He rolled off the edge of the toy box, a stunt accompanied by more dramatics than were strictly necessary, and landed on the floor beside my feet.

  “Rock,” he said, grabbing the chair’s runner and pushing it down.

  “Want to join me? You used to love this chair when you were little.”

  “Nah. I’m too big to sit in your lap now.”

  He shook his head firmly and I gathered we were talking age rather than actual size. It seemed like such a short time ago that Davey had been happy to nestle in my arms. It was sad to think those days were over.

  “Nine months,” he said. “So if it’s July now”—he ticked off the months on his fingers—“that means I have to wait all the way until next March?”

  “Maybe longer,” I admitted. “You can’t start counting until I get pregnant.”

  “Well, why don’t you?” Davey asked. From wher
e he was sitting, it all looked easy.

  “Sometimes things don’t happen just because you want them to.”

  “Yeah, but you and Sam-Dad are married now.”

  “That helps.”

  Sam and I had been together for several years, but we hadn’t started trying to have a baby until just recently. Now it seemed as though everyone expected overnight results.

  Getting pregnant with Davey had been a breeze. It hadn’t required effort, or planning, or even much forethought at all. But I’d been nearly a decade younger and at a totally different place in my life. I was trying hard to be patient, but it was difficult when both Sam and I wanted it to happen so badly.

  “In the meantime, you’ve got Maggie to play with.”

  “Maggie’s pretty cool,” Davey agreed. “But she needs more hair.”

  I sputtered a laugh. “It’ll come.”

  “And when she grows up, she’ll be a girl.”

  “That happens.”

  “I think I’d rather have a little brother.”

  I reached down and ruffled his sandy hair. “I think when the time comes, you’ll take what you get.”

  Davey slithered out from beneath my hand. He’s reached the age where displays of affection mostly just embarrass him. “Can I pick the name?”

  “You can help.”

  “Cool. I’ll start thinking up some good choices.”

  “You do that. Girls’ names, too. Just in case.”

  “Okay.” Davey braced a hand against the toy chest and stood up. “Are you ever going to take a bath?”

  “Probably not.” We’d been talking so long that I’d missed my chance. “But that’s okay.” I reached over and gathered my son into my arms for a quick hug. “I feel much better now.”

  “You do?”

  “Nearly perfect.”

  “Not me,” Davey, wriggling away. “I’m hungry.”

  “Why don’t you go check on dinner? It smells like it might be almost ready.”

  Davey, never one to do things by half measures, dashed from the room. I stood up and followed, retrieving my wine from the bathroom before heading down to the kitchen.