I'll Be Yours

by Jenny B. Jones

  “Mrs. Smith?” I sniffed the char-scented air. “Do you have something burning in the oven?”

  With a curse that cracked like lightning, Mrs. Smith bolted into the house. “The cookies!”

  I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Walking off seemed kind of rude. Stepping inside uninvited was an intrusion. I called to her from the doorway. “Is everything okay in there?”

  Any answer she had was muffled by the scream of a fire alarm wailing its angry protest. “Can’t . . . get—” The alarm was loud enough to rouse the dead in the next state. “—turned off!”

  If flaming cookies were at stake, my help was obviously needed. I walked inside, following the smell of nuked chocolate chips. “Ma’am?”

  “In here!”

  I found her standing on a chair in the kitchen, banging on the alarm with a rolling pin.

  “It won’t stop!”

  I threw open some windows and turned on her oven vent. Finding a tea towel, I ran it under the faucet, then handed it to her. “Hold this over the alarm.”

  Nose still dripping, eyes leaking tears, Mrs. Smith obeyed. “Darn thing’s connected to our security system.”

  Three long, loud minutes passed before the house went blissfully silent. Except for the sound of Mrs. Smith’s sniffles. She remained on her chair and surveyed her disaster of a kitchen. Mounds of flour covered the floor, and cracked eggs swam in bowls on the granite counter. Five empty chocolate chip bags lay on a pile of dishes that ran from one end of the kitchen to the other. Days of plates, bowls, cups, and silverware stacked in tangled, crusty heaps.

  “It’s a mess.” Mrs. Smith gingerly planted one foot on the floor, then two.

  “I could help you clean it up,” I offered.

  “I meant my life.”

  It wasn’t unusual to have people pour their hearts out to me. People trusted animal lovers. Mavis had a few regulars who came into the rescue not to see the dogs and cats, but to vent and spill their life’s secrets to her, their substitute bartender.

  Mrs. Smith walked to the stainless steel fridge and pulled out two Cokes. She handed one to me and settled onto a stool. “Cooper’s been at Stanford three months, and do you know how many times he’s called? Twice. Once he left a message, and the other time he wanted money.” She popped the top on her can with nails that had long outgrown their French manicure. “I spent eighteen years being a mom. Twenty-four hours a day, that was my job. When that baby wouldn’t sleep for a year because of the colic, did I complain? No, because I got a year of rocking my boy and two a.m. car rides, just the two of us. When he had to be in every sport ever created, and I went to each practice, each game, did I complain? No, I was the mom bringing cookies and brownies to share with the whole team. Wore my Wildcat hat and waved my foam finger like a raving fool. Chicken pox at six, mono at fifteen, his first broken heart last year. And do you know who was there through it all?”

  “You.”

  “You bet I was.” Her breath shuddered. “And I loved every minute of being Cooper’s mother. I was born for it. I have an MBA I’ve never even used because he was my job. I was CEO of this home, and now?” Her splotchy throat bobbed as she downed her pop like whiskey. “Now I’ve got nothing. Just an empty house.”

  “You still have your husband, right?”

  “He doesn’t count”

  Fair enough.

  “I mean, he travels all the time. He’s here on the weekends. He’s the one who suggested I start volunteering.” She picked up the skeleton of a cookie from the nearest pan and took a bite. “Those Ladies of Maple Grove are snots. Every one of them. And yoga? The only thing I’m enjoying about that is having an excuse to wear my fat pants.”

  “That always gives me a feeling of zen.”

  “That dog was going to be my new buddy. Oh, sure, I came in for something cute and pedigreed. That’s what I thought I wanted, you know? I saw a few who were contenders. But I walked by Trudy, and our eyes met. And it’s like I could hear her, you know? Like she was saying, ‘I’m yours. I belong to you. Take me home.’”

  I did know. It was what I heard in my own head every time I met a cat or dog. Every single one of them told me the same thing. It was why I worked so feverishly to find them homes. And because they all simply wouldn’t fit in my bedroom.

  “Why didn’t you write that on your application? You could have mentioned this when I did your home visit.”

  “I felt silly.” Black crumbs dotted her upper lip. “Forty-five years old and having my heart stolen by a mutt.”

  “She prefers the term multicultural.”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with all my new free time, but I don’t want to do it alone. I thought the obedience classes would give us something to do, a way to spend time together. I saw myself walking her in the park, taking her downtown. Driving through the bank so she could get a dog treat in the drive-thru.”

  “Trudy loves to ride in the car.”

  “What made you reject my application?”

  “It was a number of things. Everything was too perfect. I felt like I was walking through a museum instead of a home. You were a stay-at-home society mom who wore high heels on your day off and filled your every hour with things that wouldn’t leave time for Trudy.”

  Mrs. Smith’s chocolate-smeared hands cradled her sweating can of Coke. “That day you came was the first time my house had been clean since my son left. I’d spent the previous week not even getting out of bed.”

  I stood up, dusting crumbs off my butt, taking in the disheveled woman, the kitchen that looked like a bomb had turned it inside out, the heaps of laundry strewn in the hall, the two empty pizza boxes on the table, the empty donut bag on the floor. And I knew if I tuned in to just the right frequency, I would hear the sounds of a mother’s heart breaking.

  I loved Trudy. I absolutely adored her. But I didn’t need her. Animals didn’t just need homes where they could be loved; more than that, they needed homes where they could be the missing piece. Just like me and the O’Malleys.

  “Mrs. Smith, Walnut Street Animal Rescue has reconsidered.”

  “You have?”

  “Trudy will be waiting for you to pick her up tomorrow after ten.”

  Her puffy eyes blinked wide. “Really?”

  “She’s not a perfect dog, and she’s not looking for a perfect house.”

  “I think I can manage a flaw or two.” Mrs. Smith flicked a glob of butter from her arm.

  “She’s learning to play catch. Most times she won’t bring it to you. But that’s because she wants you to walk to her and get it. She has a weakness for hot dogs and you shouldn’t feed her kibbles with chicken. She’ll eat it to please you, but she doesn’t like it. She snores when she sleeps, and barks when she gets excited. Trudy scares easily, and she just needs love and patience. Because even though she cowers a lot now, there’s a good, strong dog in there who just needs a chance. She was treated horribly before. But she’s ready to start over and be the dog she was meant to be.” I smiled at the woman Mavis knew I’d misread. “I think you’re going to make an excellent mom again.”

  Mrs. Smith’s face at that moment was why I did what I did. For all the sad stories I had to endure, all the animal tales that didn’t get a happy ending, there were these sweet times.

  Trudy wasn’t just getting a new home. She was resurrecting a life.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “This is the dumbest idea you’ve ever talked me into.”

  “Relax and suck it in,” Molly snapped. “I’m trying to zip you up.”

  My best friend and I occupied the largest bathroom stall in the girls’ bathroom at the Washington High stadium. Outside were the sounds of cars parking, families walking by.

  Inside I was trapped within the confines of a Wildcat mascot uniform that hadn’t been washed since Bill Clinton was in office and Molly’s clothes were in vogue. “This thing reeks.”

  “It’s all that fur.” She attached my right arm, he
ld together by some serious Velcro. “Chaz says it makes him sweat like a sumo wrestler. Time for the kitty-cat head!”

  “Give me just a few more minutes.”

  She held the bobble-like Wildcat head, her eyes droll. “That’s what you said two minutes ago.”

  “I’m afraid of the dark.”

  “Don’t worry.” She slid the monstrosity over the top of me. “The stench will probably kill you first.”

  “I want to reconsider.”

  “No, I paid Chaz twenty bucks to call in sick tonight.”

  “It smells like he was sick in here.”

  “Did you say something, Harper? You have to speak through the hole in the Wildcat’s belly button.”

  “I should’ve tried skywriting.”

  “Just breathe,” Molly said. “Oh, and do that through the—”

  “The Wildcat’s left boob. I got it.”

  “Let’s review the plan. You just clap and stuff like that with the cheerleaders. Then at halftime, Chaz says it’s his job to grab the water bottles and help Sam Musteen bring them to the locker room during the pep talk.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since the other water boy, Jasper Flicks, decided to use his Friday nights to join an all-girls Roller Derby.”

  “But he’s a boy.”

  “Apparently he’s ready to debate that point.”

  “Am I going to see butts in the locker room?”

  “Only if you’re lucky.”

  “Just hand me my paws and let’s go.”

  The stall door creaked as Molly flung it open and gave me a little shove. “This way.”

  I promptly walked into the towel dispenser.

  After snapping a few photos she didn’t think I was aware of, Molly led me to the field, parking me right on the cheer line. She leaned into a space near my ear. “I’ve placed you between Desiree Paulsen and Sierra Towson. They’re the worst ones on the squad, so anything you do will look like aces.”

  The buzzer flared, and the hometown crowd stood to their feet, erupting in cheers. The band threw themselves into the fight song, and I could see Andrew playing his horn. He really was first chair material.

  Just not for me.

  The team broke from the sidelines, and Ridley ran onto the field. My heart gave a little shimmy at the sight of him. Nobody wore the Washington jersey like him. And nobody played the game of football like him.

  The first quarter yawned by. So far I had only received two complaints from the cheerleaders. During the second quarter, I upped my game and even went into the stands, ringing a stupid cowbell and pretending to roar at little kids. Only one of them cried.

  With one minute ’til the half, the game was tied, and the crowd was lit like dynamite. Their football star had returned, and so had the Wildcats’ chances of winning. The Newton Wombats had the ball, and the clock was blissfully ticking. Our fans got to their feet, anxiously watching for their boys to somehow turn it around. The Wombats stood on the twenty, ready to bring the ball to that sweet spot in the end zone. The play went into motion, and everyone moved. I cursed the blasted fur and one abnormally tall cheerleader for obscuring my sight. Where was Ridley?

  The Wombats got closer.

  And closer.

  Their quarterback speared the ball to their man, who waited with open hands.

  And our own number twenty-five, Peyton Billson, intercepted it instead. The stands erupted as the Wildcat offense quickly took the field.

  I didn’t know if I was woozy from the body-odor scented oxygen or from the game, but with seconds on the board, the quarterback spun and threw a Hail Mary.

  Just as Ridley Estes leaped up, a ballet of motion. His body arced, his armed extended.

  And angels sang as the ball flew into his hands.

  “Go! Go!” I jumped up and down, wobbling just enough to knock into Sierra Towson, but bless her, she quickly got me vertical. “Go, Ridley!”

  The announcer in the press box went nuts. “Number twenty-three, Ridley Estes, at the forty, at the thirty, twenty, ten, and . . . touchdown!”

  I screamed like I had a skirt and pom-poms, doing happy skips with Desiree Paulsen. Fulfilling my duties as mascot, I ran the length of the infield, my hands lifted high toward the crowd.

  And that’s when I saw Phillip C. Miller.

  Offensive coordinator for the USK Eagles.

  He held a phone to his ear and scribbled notes on a pad.

  But he was smiling.

  And so was I.

  “Chaz, are you going to help me with the water or not?”

  Sam Musteen stomped by me, wheeling a cart with the water system. “Right.”

  It was go time.

  This new desire to take some risks was going to be the end of me.

  I grabbed the other cart and pushed my way down the sidelines. Right into the field house.

  The locker room didn’t smell much better than the inside of this cat getup. The guys drank water like they’d been rescued from a desert, and they grabbed cups from my paws like savages. I filled more cups while I searched for Ridley. My eyes finally locked on him, as he toweled the sweat from his forehead and stood next to his coach. Another player high-fived him, and I had to smile at the unfiltered joy on Ridley’s face.

  Coach Robbins gave a rousing pep talk, full of words my dad would’ve been proud of, like winners, fight, hard work, and rip them apart. The boys were high on win, and when Coach said all hands in, it took everything I could not to join them.

  “Who are we?”

  “Washington Wildcats!”

  “Who’s gonna win tonight?”

  “Washington Wildcats!”

  “Who’s going all the way to state?”

  “Washington Wildcats!”

  They filed out, their cleats clacking like percussion. I pushed my water cart, trailing behind.

  But stopped in the doorway.

  Where Molly’s seven-year-old brother stood, holding out a pen and a ball. “Ridley, gimme your autograph?”

  Ridley laughed. “You like football?”

  “Sure do.” Her brother looked at me as Ridley handed back the newly signed ball. And winked. “Thanks, dude!”

  “You bet, kid.”

  The team had already left him, and Ridley headed in that direction.

  Until I called his name.

  He turned. Looked at me. Shook his head, then walked out.

  “No, wait!” I ran as fast as my bloated fur legs would let me. “Ridley, it’s me! Harper!”

  He froze. And when he turned around, he no longer wore that euphoric grin.

  We stood in the small hall that led outside, and the sounds of the impending second half pressed against the doors. “I want to talk to you.”

  “What the crap are you wearing?”

  “I can explain—my poor taste in tiger wear, the last few weeks. Everything.”

  “Harper, what is this?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you.” I lifted the Wildcat head from mine and gave my hair a shake. But it wouldn’t budge, clinging to my face in wet chunks. “I’ve called, texted. I’ve stopped by your house, your job.”

  “You said what you had to say last week.” His scowl was dark as the sky above the stadium lights. “And you were right—I did need a new tutor.”

  “No, you don’t. You need me.” He wouldn’t even look at me. “I mean, I need you. I broke up with Andrew.”

  His head lowered. Was he giving this tidbit serious thought? Or just checking out my giant hairy feet?

  “Harper, you made your choice. Now I have to go. As you might have noticed, I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “You still have two minutes. Please talk to me.”

  “Now’s really not good.”

  “Then when?” My voice was shrill with desperation. “I have so much to tell you.”

  The eyes that stared back at me said he was done.

  It was over.

  “I’m all through listening.” Ridley p
ut on his helmet. “And you’re too late.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Washington Wildcats won their game, advancing them to the next round of playoffs. I’d like to think it was because they had the most phenomenal mascot.

  But really it was because of Ridley Estes.

  The boy who, in the end, did break my heart.

  I’d held out the ridiculous fantasy that my pleas had pierced Ridley’s heart, and he would pick up his phone and call. Text. Throw a rock through my yonder window.

  But none of those happened.

  Saturday drifted by.

  Sunday meandered after.

  By Monday afternoon, I couldn’t stand myself, couldn’t tolerate my own moping. So I made a call and arranged for myself . . . a date. Mustering my courage, I’d picked the time, the place. And this time I brought the picnic.

  At six o’clock, I settled onto a bench and watched the Christmas lights flicker and glow, bringing my beloved downtown to life. There was a nativity scene, Santa’s workshop, the tree that stood in the center next to Betsy Callaghan and her horse Blue, the stars of an annual trimming ceremony. Carolers from schools, churches, and various organizations would take turns entertaining the citizens of Maple Grove in the coming weeks, bringing holiday cheer.

  I hoped to find some myself by December twenty-fifth.

  “I see you saved me a spot.”

  My date walked down the sidewalk, smiling as bright as the North Star.

  I tightened my hold on Jay-Z’s and Kanye’s leashes and scooted over. “Brought hot chocolate for us. Biscuits for the dogs.”

  Angela Smith sat beside me, settling Trudy in her lap. “No biscuits for Trudy. We’re both on a diet.” She hugged her puppy to her. “Cooper has asked me to his fraternity’s parent banquet, and I want to look svelte.”

  She already looked wonderful. Not one person would notice a few extra pounds when she shined like that.

  “How’s Trudy?” I scratched the dog under her slobbery chin, already knowing the answer.

  “She’s so great, Harper. And so smart, aren’t you? Yes, you are. Oh, yes, you are!”

  I poured us each a cup of steaming hot chocolate, then pulled out a can of whipped cream I had in my purse. If my mood didn’t improve, I would just keep a constant supply in there. I sprayed some in my drink, then held it over hers. “Are you sure you won’t indulge?”