How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  Hello, sweet girl. Hope you had a good night. I’m about to leave my pal Freddie’s now that the game is over. Should I go home or come to your place?

  And suddenly all thoughts of an early night fly right out the window.

  I have a fluffy beast that needs a walk and a Nutella babka that isn’t going to eat itself for breakfast. What do you think?

  I think I will see you in 15.

  Looks like the night is about to take a turn for the better.

  Thirteen

  It takes me most of the morning, but I get Lawrence’s kitchen cabinets, fridge, and freezer completely cleaned out and purged of expired goods and items otherwise past their prime. He’s in Palm Springs with pals for the next two weeks, and it’s always easier to take care of this when he isn’t around to see that I’ve relieved him of ten-year-old cans of foie gras paté and dusty jars of jams and pickled walnuts and such that he brought back from travels abroad. I wipe down the shelves of the fridge with a mild bleach and water solution, put new paper pads into the drawers, and put back the condiments and beverages that are still fine. I’ll restock him with staples and basics for breakfasts and lunches before he returns. I replenish his spice jars with fresh contents, having done my end-of-the-year trip to The Spice House on Wells Street. Some people believe in spring cleaning, but when spring finally arrives in Chicago I want to be outside enjoying the weather and getting some much-needed vitamin D, not stuck inside. I do a purge between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so that I start the new year with a clean house and a freezer and fridge free of old sad items, ready to be refilled with delectables acquired during the festive season. I dump all my herbs and spices and replace with fresh, making for some very fragrant garbage.

  This past weekend I finished the work at my house. I packed up all my spring and summer clothes into their tubs, looking wistfully at my old tub labeled Bearaphernalia, the serious cold-weather gear I collected over the years that allowed me to attend the December and January Bears games with my dad and Uncle Buddy.

  Shawn and I are going to the game this weekend with some friends of his, but we’ll be in a skybox, well insulated from the whipping Chicago winds off the lake and any snow that might arrive, so the tub is staying untouched for another season. Although I did dig out my Jimbo Covert jersey to wear, a real one that he wore in a game, which my dad got me. I swapped out my light cotton sheets and blankets for the flannel sheets and down comforter that will get me through the winter. Took down the light sheer curtains and replaced them with the heavy velvet ones that block the drafts. It felt so good that I came over here today to take care of Lawrence’s kitchen so that he will come back to some of the freshness I’m enjoying at my house, and the place will be in perfect shape for his annual New Year’s Eve celebration.

  I love this time of year. For most people in the food industry, the holiday season is fraught with horrors. Demanding clients, missing your own celebrations to attend to the celebrations of strangers, long hours and short days making for depressing weeks. You leave the house when it is still dark and go home in the same gloom and it is as if there is no sun to shine. I probably won’t see Marcy at all till the new year; her time will be so overbooked that any hours she isn’t working she’ll be sleeping.

  But for me, this is my favorite time of year. Thanksgiving started the fun, my holy grail, and now I’ve got the Farbers’ holiday party this weekend to prep for, after which they will head out of town for winter vacation for two weeks. This year they are going to visit Shelby’s folks in Miami, with a detour for a few days to Disney World. They invited me to join them, but I declined, saying that I had promised to help Teresa do Christmas in light of her injury. Shelby didn’t pry, but I know she suspects there is more to my sticking around than that, and she isn’t wrong. Shawn will be in town until Christmas Eve, and then he will be in North Carolina visiting his folks until the thirtieth, but he is coming back for Lawrence’s party.

  When everything is squared away, I settle down at the kitchen table to make some notes. This year Lawrence wants to go small and elegant for New Year’s. He has invited my mom and Aunt Claire, me and Shawn, his dear friends Michael and Jerry, who are currently hosting him in Palm Springs, his other dear friends Todd and Joel, who will be hosting him in Sedona in January, and his best girlfriend, Esme. He said I’m only allowed to cook if I can do stuff that allows me to be more guest than chef, so I’ve been working on a menu that relies heavily on items that are served cold or at room temp, or can be made ahead and reheated. Lucky for me, some of my favorite things can be done this way, and I think I have a fun retro-inspired menu that should please Lawrence and keep me from being a slave to the kitchen. We’ll start with oysters on the half shell and homemade salt-and-pepper potato chips, just to whet the appetites. Then a wedge salad with homemade ranch dressing and crumbled peppered bacon. For the main course, a slow-roasted prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, creamed spinach, tomato pudding baked into tomato halves, and fresh popovers instead of bread. For dessert, the world’s most perfect chocolate cream pie.

  Marcy and I went on a Sunday boondoggle to Milwaukee last year and had lunch at this terrific gastropub called Palomino, and while the whole meal was spectacular, notably the fried chicken, the chocolate cream pie was life changing for us both. Marcy used her pastry-chef wiles to get the recipe, and we both love any excuse to make it. It’s serious comfort food, and I can’t think of a better way to ring in the New Year.

  We’ll serve buffet-style, so other than carving the meat and cutting the pie, I’ll have very little to do except sit at dinner and hope that this is the right way to introduce Shawn to my family. I got very nervous when Lawrence said he wanted to include Mom and Aunt Claire, since it will mean fessing up to having a dating life. But then I decided that a small group of loving friends on a festive night would make for some good buffering so that poor Shawn doesn’t end up feeling like he is being interrogated too much. I’m going to tell them when I see them tonight.

  My phone pings just as I am locking up Lawrence’s apartment. It’s Lynne.

  I need you. Can you come to the apartment?

  Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good. Lynne never asks for help.

  Are you okay?

  My mind races. I wonder if she is injured or sick or something.

  Yes. But I could use another pair of hands.

  Curious. That sounds less like an emergency and more like work is in the offing.

  I’m on my way.

  • • •

  I knock on Lynne’s door and hear a flurry of activity and the unmistakable sound of barking. Suddenly things are starting to make sense. The door swings open and there is my elegant friend Lynne, sweating and looking panicked, her hair a rat’s nest, holding a wiggly Dalmatian puppy, who is chewing on Lynne’s ponytail and scrabbling at her arms, already covered in red welts, with his rear paws.

  “Hi,” she says. “This is your fault.”

  I try to prevent myself from laughing.

  “Well, hello there. Who is this?” I say, coming inside to see that her apartment looks like a crime scene. There are feathers everywhere, presumably from a destroyed throw pillow, unmistakable pee stains on the rug, scratches on the hardwood flooring, and what appear to be the remains of at least two different shoes.

  “This is Ellison. Who I am about to fucking kill. Can you take him for a minute?” She holds out the beastie to me as I put my purse safely on the counter. I receive the warm weight of puppy, cooing to him softly, and hold him tightly with his back nestled against my front and his legs supported from underneath. I spot a small bully stick on the side table and pick it up, holding it while he chews it, and he calms immediately.

  “Hello, Ellison. Are you a terror?”

  “He’s a fucking terrorist.” Lynne begins to pick up the detritus from her little Tasmanian devil. “Look at my house! He’s gonna destroy everything!”

  “Well, yeah, he�
��s a puppy. When did you get him?” I say, settling into one of the club chairs in the living room. Ellison readjusts himself on my lap and accidentally nips my hand, and I adjust the bully stick to keep his razor-sharp puppy teeth farther from my tender flesh. He snuggles into the wide expanse of my thighs, using his front paws on my hands to help hold the chew toy.

  Lynne collapses on the couch, where I can see that one corner of the arm closest to me has been well chewed. “Over the weekend. I picked him up Friday afternoon. Took yesterday and today off to get him settled. He was so sweet. Calm and quiet, just spent the last four days as a lovely, mellow little guy. Then I went upstairs to the workout room this morning after his walk and came home to this!” She sweeps her hand around the apartment.

  “Didn’t you have him crated?” I can see the large black crate in the corner of the room.

  “He was sleeping on his little bed when I left. I was only gone forty minutes.”

  I chuckle. “Yeah, that’s all it takes.”

  “Clearly.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Twelve weeks. He’s had a month of puppy training at the breeder, so he can handle the leash, and knows ‘sit.’ But I would have thought he would be more housebroken than this.”

  Oh, Lord. “Lynne, I know I said you should get a dog, but didn’t I specifically say you should go to the pound and get an older rescue dog?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t go all ‘I told you so’ up in here. I’m aware of what you suggested.”

  “So how did you get from older rescue mutt to purebred Dalmatian baby?”

  When Lynne blushes, her caramel skin deepens to a lovely mahogany. “Angelique.”

  “Angelique Morris?”

  “She has Dalmatians. Three of them. I mentioned I was thinking of getting a dog, when I was meeting with her to try and land the business, and she immediately called her breeder and pulled strings.”

  I start to laugh.

  “It’s not funny! She got all excited that our dogs would be cousins and that would make us like family and I thought if I didn’t go that direction I might not get the account and it all just snowballed!”

  “Wow. You are committed to your work, I will give you that. Have you done any research on the breed?” Dalmatians, while lovely dogs in personality, are high energy, not particularly well suited to apartment life, and can be difficult to train.

  “I have now. God help me.”

  Ellison has fallen asleep on my lap, such a sweet warm weight; you’d never know he was a one-man demolition crew. “I presume there is no going back on this, you can’t return him?”

  “Are you crazy? Angelique would think I’m a monster. Plus . . . I sort of like him. When he isn’t munching my Prada and peeing on my silk rug.”

  “Good. He’s a sweet boy, and Dalmatians are trainable, you just have to get serious. And you have to crate him when you aren’t here, always.”

  “Yeah, that part I learned.”

  “Let’s put him in there to nap and I’ll help you clean up.” I stand slowly, and the puppy squirms a bit, but doesn’t really wake up as I put him in his crate and gently lock the door. I grab the throw blanket off the nearest chair and drape it over the crate to provide some darkness and sound buffering, and Lynne and I get to putting her place back to rights. I grab her iPad and put in a Petco order with some essentials for her, and schedule delivery within two hours. I forward her the contact info I have for Bryant, the trainer who helped me with Simca, and my dog-walking service.

  By the time we’ve cleaned up the destroyed pillow and shoes, and cleaned the rug as best we can, it feels late enough that we can indulge in a drink and Lynne opens a bottle of wine.

  “Cheers. Thanks for the save.”

  “Well, it is partially my fault, but I don’t take full blame on this one.”

  “Fair enough. I totally get why you thought I should do it. You know, when he was so calm these past days it was amazing to just have this adorable little guy who loved me so much and just wanted to be with me. What the hell happened?”

  “When you bring puppies home, it can take a few days before they feel comfortable enough to be themselves. The move from the breeder to your house is emotionally trying and it makes them exhausted and super docile. When they get comfy with you and their surroundings, they just become normal puppies, and everything that goes with that. Simca was an angel for the first three days, just padding around after me and snuggling with me whenever I sat still. And then she became a tiny little maniacal furball full of teeth who peed constantly. My arms looked like hamburger, and my rug wasn’t salvageable. But nothing was more adorable than the sweet parts, the quiet, sleepy parts.”

  “That’s how they get you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Somewhere right now my ex is really smug.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He wanted dogs. Dogs and kids. Not, of course, when we met. When we met he was all, I’m too busy, too much of an impact on lifestyle, too hard to travel, too much hassle, yadda yadda yadda . . .”

  “Like you.”

  “Exactly! But then a bunch of his buddies all had kids at once and suddenly his biological clock started beeping, and when I said that he had always known kids were not my thing, he started insisting that then we should get a dog, because that would at least be a compromise.”

  “Wow, that must have been hard.” I know Lynne—she has never wanted kids, not ever, and she has never been shy about it. I’ve always really respected her for that. She always said that she was in the Oprah mode, that she thought she couldn’t be the woman she wants to be and the mother children deserve at the same time, and that she would focus on being a great auntie and godmother when the opportunities arose. “Do you think he was lying when you met? Saying what he thought you wanted to hear and figured you’d change your mind?”

  “I dunno. He said that when we met he wasn’t in that headspace, but that something changed. Tried to tell me that it was just because we were so great together and he loved me so much that it made him think we should be parents.”

  “Well, that is kind of sweet.”

  “That is kind of bullshit manipulation. And when I said that wasn’t the arrangement and I hadn’t changed my mind, it was the beginning of the end. Suddenly nothing I did or said was good or right, and every other word out of his mouth was a thinly veiled dig about my being selfish and inflexible.”

  I don’t really say anything, since I also think Lynne can sometimes be kind of selfish and inflexible about some things. But she does not hide who she is, so if her ex married her, he should have known who she was, what she believed, how she wanted her life to be.

  “And then he was shocked when I wasn’t so keen on sex.”

  “Wait, you stopped sleeping with him?”

  “Well, not entirely, but you know, we were busy and not really connecting, and I started to feel like he was disappointed in bed because it wasn’t about making babies, you know? Like he was just scratching an itch, because if it wasn’t going to have a higher purpose, there was no need to really be together.” Lynne sounds hurt and I don’t blame her. After all, she can’t be held responsible for not changing her mind about something as fundamental as having children, just because her ex did a switcheroo on her.

  Her tone changes, and there is a vulnerability that I’ve rarely heard in her voice. “I wasn’t punishing him, you know? I kept trying, made jokes about how my body would always be slammin’ with no stretch marks, tried to get busy in unusual places, be all spontaneous, but he wasn’t really into it. Just turned into once a week or so, rolling over in the dark, not really being with me, just sort of going through the motions. Made me feel like I could be just anyone. It hadn’t ever been like that, you know, we could always connect in bed . . . he was amazing—we were amazing together. Until we weren’t.”

 
; “Wow. I’m so sorry. That is just awful.”

  “Yeah. I thought he would get over it, but he just threw himself into work and then he got a job offer in a different city and expected I would just pick up and move with him. He tried to say it would be a fresh start for us, but I said I would have to seriously think about it and while I was thinking he accepted the job and essentially said that he was moving and I was welcome to come with him if I wanted. I didn’t want.”

  “That is so passive-aggressive.”

  “No, child, that is aggressive-aggressive. It wasn’t even more money!”

  This last part prickles a bit. After all, the focus here is that her husband was making very important life decisions without her. But she just kind of implied that it would have been more tolerable if there were bigger dollar signs involved. But Lynne is my friend, and at the end of the day, this man really hurt her, so I decide to shrug it off.

  “Well, then, clearly he was not the right guy for you!”

  “Nope!” she says, reaching her glass out to me for a toast. “Was then and will always be Mr. So-Very-Wrong!”

  There is a yip from the crate and Lynne goes to get her pup, still a bit sleepy and back to sweetness mode. She coos and cradles him, kissing the top of his head and calling him a good boy and a sweet little man, and for a second I can kind of see where her ex might have thought she’d be a good mother. For all her hard exterior, there is a soft creamy center to Lynne.

  “I’ll walk you out and take this guy for a long stroll,” she says, snapping on his leash. “Thanks for the save.”

  “Of course. He’s adorable, and once he’s trained, he’ll be the love of your life, I promise. We’ll have a play date with Simca maybe this weekend, okay? She’ll help whip him into shape.”

  “Sounds good.”