by McMan, Ann;
I hung my head. “I was trying to catch them.”
“Well, you certainly succeeded.”
“Hey. It’s not my fault that blue-haired pit viper called the cops.”
“She wasn’t the only one.”
I thought about it. “I guess those people at the Baltimore Museum of Art were pretty pissed, huh?”
“You might say that. I don’t think they appreciated having two marauding dogs roar through the star-studded opening reception for the Marguerite Matisse exhibit.”
I ran a hand over my face. “Their leashes got tangled up around the legs of the buffet table. Those canapés went everyplace.”
“I know.”
“I honestly don’t know how Sadie managed to eat four platters of them before the security guards chased them back toward the front door.”
“Diz . . .”
“She puked three times in the foyer.”
“Diz . . .”
“Of course, that damn Whippet ate her puke.”
“Diz . . .”
“Then she threw up, too.”
Clarissa closed her eyes.
“I actually think that crabmeat was bad . . . she probably did them all a favor.”
Clarissa dropped a hand to my arm and squeezed. Her grip was like a vice.
I winced. “What?”
“Stop. Just. Stop.”
“You asked me to tell you what happened.” I sulked.
Clarissa shook her head.
“I don’t think those Cone sisters would’ve complained,” I grumbled. “They liked dogs . . . and art.”
“Oh, really? Too bad you can’t say the same thing about the
administration at Johns Hopkins.”
I rolled my eyes. “They were asking for it.”
“Excuse me?” Clarissa was giving me her vintage “you’re insane” look.
I waved a hand. “What in the hell were they thinking, holding a damn Winter Wonderland festival with live animals from the Baltimore Zoo?”
“Diz. It took them nearly three hours to round up all those
penguins.”
“How is that my fault? Those damn birds were all over the place, flapping around like lunatics, chasing that freak-show Whippet. The damn thing was trailing a five-foot string of red hots it picked up after knocking over that sidewalk vendor in Wyman Park.”
Clarissa drained her glass and picked up the bottle. “I can’t listen to any more of this.”
“Hey . . . you asked to hear my version of events. Well. This is my version of events.”
She sighed and refilled her glass. “Tell me about the parade.”
The parade.
She meant the annual Mayor’s Christmas Parade. The one Sheila and the kids were attending—which was the whole reason I was stuck with Sadie in the first place.
The two rampaging hounds from hell finally chose this as the signature event to end their metropolitan reign of terror.
Demoralized, exhausted, and nearly dead from running flat out in the frigid air, I finally caught up with the dogs at the intersection of 36th Street and Chestnut Avenue. I could hear the distant rumble of marching bands as the parade approached. My lungs were burning, and I was gasping for air. I thought I might pass out. Then I saw them.
Sadie and Maris were cooling their heels near a roadside water station when I limped up behind them. I nearly had a hand on Sadie before she whipped her head around at the last instant and saw me just as I made a grab for her harness. I feinted to the right in a lame attempt to trick her, but she was too quick. And smart. She knew it was a ruse and plunged right on past me, with the cashmere-clad Maris in tow.
“I nearly had them there,” I explained to Clarissa. I held up my thumb and index finger. “It was this close. But that damn husky outsmarted me.”
“There’s a shocker,” Clarissa said without a trace of empathy.”
“Hey!” I socked her on the leg. “I’d like to see you go twelve rounds with a Siberian husky on crack and still be standing up to talk about it.”
Clarissa sipped from her glass. “What happened next?”
“Next?” I shook my head. “Next I collapsed against a light pole and watched the parade roll by. It wasn’t until I heard the roar and applause from the crowd that I looked up and saw the two dogs riding on the back of Santa’s float.”
She glared at me. “And then you got arrested.”
“Not exactly. It took a while for the crowds to realize what the dogs were actually doing up there.”
Clarissa narrowed her eyes.
“It wasn’t until the float passed the reviewing stand that the commotion started. Of course, this is the precise moment when that she-bitch Skeletor arrived on the scene. She started shrieking her over-permed head off when she saw her precious Maris splayed out atop a supine, spread-eagled Siberian husky, licking away like there was no tomorrow.”
Clarissa covered her face with her free hand.
“People were yelling and yanking their kids away. The Santa on the front of the float was totally oblivious. He just kept waving and yelling, ‘Ho, ho, ho . . . Merry Christmas.’ It didn’t help that the corporate sponsor of the float was Urbanspoon’s Taste of Baltimore.”
Clarissa’s shoulders were shaking now.
“Then Skeletor grabbed a nearby policeman and told him I was a pervert who had stolen her prize show dog. I had just started to explain the situation to him when I heard the approaching sound of Sheila’s ear-splitting voice screaming at me for losing her dog. The last thing I heard before I got shoved into the backseat of a patrol car was Alvin asking Sheila what that dog in the gray coat was doing on top of Sadie.”
Clarissa was doing a bad job trying not to laugh. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me.
“They told me that Sheila got Sadie back, and I assume that Skeletor got her precious Whippet. I honestly have no idea why I’m the one who ended up in the joint. Again.” I looked at her. “I called Father Frank to come down and bail me out. I assume he’s the one who ratted me out and told you I was there?”
Clarissa didn’t reply right away.
“Well?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Not exactly. It turns out you weren’t the only one arrested at the parade.”
I wasn’t? This was news.
“Who else got picked up?”
She sighed. “The owner of the Whippet got taken in, too. Apparently, she slapped someone in the crowd for making a lewd comment about her dog’s . . . proclivities.”
“Ha!” I laughed. “Serves her right. What a crusty old bitch. She deserves to have a lesbo dog.”
“And daughter, apparently.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Diz. That crusty old bitch was Elspeth Wiley.”
“Elspeth?” I waved a hand. “Of course she’d have a name like Elspeth. Who in the hell has a name like Elspeth?” I shook my head. Clearly someone who names her dog Maris.
Wait a minute . . .
Wiley?
I looked at Clarissa with a sinking feeling. “Did you say her name was Elspeth Wiley?”
“That’s right.” She nodded. “Although I generally just call her Mom.”
“You have to come out eventually.”
“No, I don’t.”
I heard her rattle the doorknob.
“Diz. Unlock the door.”
“No.”
“Honey. You can’t spend the night in the powder room. It’s not that bad.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one whose face is plastered all over the six o’clock news.”
“Neither are you. Everyone thinks it was Rachel Maddow who got arrested.”
Cold comfort.
“Did you hear what they’re calling it?” I whined. “The Great Santa Paws Caper. That’s what they said on WJZ.”
“I heard it.”
“What kind of lame ass headline was that?”
“You’re upset about the headline?”
“Aren’t you?
I give them the story of the century and The Great Santa Paws Caper is the best they can come up with? Someone should revoke their FCC license.”
“Honey . . .”
“I can’t do anything right, Clar. I really fucked things up.”
“No you didn’t.”
“Oh, yeah?” I huffed. “Try telling that to Elspeth.”
“Diz . . .”
“She’s going to sue me for those damages.”
“Diz . . .”
“It’ll take me the rest of my natural life to raise that much money.”
“Honey . . .”
“And she’ll never let you see me again when she finds out about us.”
“Diz, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not Rapunzel. What do you think they’ll do? Cut off my hair?”
“No . . . your allowance.”
There was silence on the other side of the door.
I felt like a schmuck.
“I’m sorry.”
No response.
“Clar?”
All quiet on the western front.
I unlocked the door and stepped out of the powder room. Clarissa was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall and her legs stretched out across the sisal rug. She was holding the Remy bottle. I did not see a glass. I could, however, see the reflection of the Christmas tree lights in her gray eyes as she looked up at me.
“I’m an asshole,” I said.
“I’m not inclined to disagree with you.”
I slid down the wall to sit beside her. “Why do you put up with me?”
She looked at me. For once, her expression was unguarded. “Because I think you’re adorable.”
I felt that tingling again. The same one I’d experienced earlier in the day when my fingers were starting to freeze. It started in all my extremities and quickly spread out along my arms and legs to jump-start all my bigger parts. Clarissa was like a human piezo igniter.
“I am?”
She nodded. “You’re also funny, uncommonly smart, sweetly dorky, and a loyal friend. Plus you look exactly like Rachel Maddow.” She smiled. “What’s not to love?”
I wanted to crawl inside her and wrap her words around me like a thermal blanket. “You love me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Diz. I love you. And not in spite of my better judgment, but because of it.”
I smiled stupidly and leaned into her.
“However, there is one thing we need to get straight.”
Shit. I knew it was too good to be true.
“I have my own resources which are not—I repeat, not—dependent upon support or patronage from my parents, or anyone else. Are we clear on that?”
I nodded.
“I mean it. I don’t want to have this discussion again.”
I crossed my heart with two fingers. “I promise.”
“Good.” She passed me the Remy bottle. “Drink up. There’s more.”
“Oh, man.” I took the bottle and drank a hefty sip. It went down like polished fire.
“I talked with Dad.”
“Oh shit.” I slumped against her.
“I told him about us. I mean, I told him the parts he hadn’t already figured out.”
I was stunned. “You told him?”
“Under the circumstances, it seemed indicated.”
I looked down at the floor. “I guess so.”
She bumped my shoulder. “Don’t be so glum. Dad likes you. He always has.”
“He might like me as an employee of Wiley Magazine Group. I’m not so sure how he’ll feel about me as your . . . you know.”
“My . . . you know?”
I shrugged. “Yeah.”
“I’m not even sure how I’d feel about you as my ‘you know.’ ”
She smirked. “You know?”
“Very funny.”
“Lighten up, honey. It wasn’t exactly rocket science for him to connect the dots. Not after my desperation to get to you during that blizzard last year on Christmas Eve.”
“He figured that one out, huh?”
“You might say that. My zeal to hitch a ride with the redoubtable Beaver Cab Company during the snowstorm of the decade probably tipped my cards just a tad. My father has always been a quick study."
I smiled at the recollection of how Clarissa showed up at Otis Campbell’s tree lot like a creature from the storm. Fond memories of how the rest of that night panned out made me smile even more. She noticed.
“What are you thinking about?”
“One guess.”
“Pervert.”
“Hey? Unlike you, I’ve never pretended to be otherwise.”
She rolled her eyes and held out her hand. “Give me that.”
I passed the Remy bottle over. She took a sip.
“Are we gonna sit here all night?” I asked.
“I dunno.” She shrugged. “At least until the cognac runs out.”
I sighed.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I was thinking about Elspeth.”
“Oh. Yeah. I fear that one is going to be a harder sell.”
“You think?”
“Dad says we should wait until the party and let her be surprised.”
I looked at her with alarm. “Is he nuts?”
“Not usually. But Mom is totally preoccupied right now with Maris’s therapy, and he doesn’t want to overtax her.”
“Excuse me?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “Did you say therapy?”
She nodded.
“For the dog?”
She nodded again.
“Maris has a therapist?”
“So it seems.”
I was dumbfounded. “How is that even possible?”
She handed me the cognac bottle.
“Let’s see. You take one part over-bred dog, two parts over-bred dog owner, and three parts disposable income. Shake all together and voila—Jungian veterinarian with offices overlooking the Inner Harbor.”
“Do the Obamacare people know about this?”
“I don’t think it’s covered.”
I shook my head. “And I’m worried about how I’m going to come up with $42,000 in damages.”
Clarissa smiled. “By the way . . . I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.”
“About what?”
“The damages. In actual fact, the dog owners are the ones responsible for the debt.”
“So?”
“So that would be my mother and Marty. Not you. Yet you keep talking about this like it’s your responsibility.”
“It is.”
“How so?”
“Well.” I pulled my legs up and rubbed my hands over my sore knees. “Sadie was in my care when she got loose.” I looked up at Clarissa. “And there’s no way Marty and Sheila could ever take on a debt like that—not with three kids.”
I thought I could see her eyes soften as she looked back at me. “Even if I agreed with you—and I’m not saying that I do—there are probably some opportunities to reduce this amount.”
I looked at her with interest. “Such as?”
“My father happens to be on the Museum board, and he’s also a trustee at Hopkins.”
I perked up at once. “Did you say he liked me?”
“Not as much as he likes my mother—and values his reputation.”
I smiled. “Good ol’ Bernie.”
Clarissa held up a hand. “Hold your applause. He has a condition.”
My heart sank. “What is it?”
“You have to promise to refrain from committing any felonies in the State of Maryland for at least six months.”
“Doesn’t anyone care that I was framed? On both occasions?”
“You’re forgetting that my mother was arrested, too.”
I looked at her. “I’m certain that her record has already been expunged.”
“More than likely.”
I sighed. “I’ll miss seeing Dorrie. I was thinking about inviting her to our party.”
&n
bsp; “Dorrie?”
“My cell mate in the joint. She’s really been misunderstood, too.”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “Let’s not and say we did.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. I could hear Perry Como crooning from the front room. I didn’t realize that Clarissa had turned on the stereo.
“I met a man who lived in Tennessee. He was heading for . . .”
I thought about the party again. “I did it, you know.”
Clarissa looked at me with alarm. “Did what?”
“Invited my family. I did it. I sent them all invitations.”
She seemed surprised. “You did?”
I nodded. “Marty and Sheila, too.”
She smiled. It was one of her high-octane smiles. The ones that made my insides melt. She leaned into me. Red violets.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Her voice was low and soft.
“I guess we’ll see. I hope your father likes crab cakes.”
She rested her hand on top of mine. “He loves crab cakes.”
“Really big ones?” I asked.
“Uh huh.” Her face was very close to mine now. It filled up my plane of vision. But I could still see the reflection of the tree lights in her gleaming eyes.
“I’m talking the kind that could declare statehood.”
“So I’ve heard.” She gently took the Remy bottle away from me and set it out of harm’s way.
“You have to see them to believe them.”
“Diz?”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
She kissed me, and I had a fleeting, euphoric sense that maybe this whole blended-family scheme of hers might actually work. But as our nonverbal conversation progressed, I stopped thinking about crab cakes, relatives, dogs, and dog therapists and concentrated instead on the one sweet combination that always worked just like a charm.
“Oh, there is no fucking way!”
I grabbed the remote control and punched in the numbers for another channel. The screen filled up with another big map of the eastern United States. All of the Mid-Atlantic States were colored with a big swath of blue. Dark blue.
The talking heads were rhapsodizing about something called “Winter Storm Brunhilde,” the fast-moving, surprise low pressure system that had materialized in the gulf and was now roaring up the coast dumping ice and snow in its wake. Local forecasters seemed to have divided opinions on exactly what track Brunhilde would take when she reached the Chesapeake. Most of the computer models suggested that Brunhilde would head out to sea well before she reached the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area. A minority of other models suggested that we needed to prepare for yet another white Christmas.