Herself

by Leslie Carroll

  We’re in the homestretch; less than two weeks until election day, but I needed to get away from it all for a while. On Gus’s advice, I played it safe in my Education speech, steering clear of the potentially toxic topics, and it went over well, enabling me to cut Dobson’s lead to only four points—with the usual “plus or minus three percentage points” caveat—leaving us (on the upside) in a statistical dead heat. Gus is convinced that it’s still anybody’s ball game. But Dobson is jamming the airwaves with attack ads, slamming me in two different commercials. In one spot he positions me as an inexperienced neophyte (“Just because Tessa Craig wrote for a congressman, it doesn’t make her right for Congress”). In the other ad he paints me as a Washington insider, literally in bed with the denizens of Capitol Hill. “They say that politics makes strange bed-fellows,” Dobson drawls, then proudly pokes his chest with his thumb. “But this businessman will put an end to business as usual.” In typical mudslinging fashion, neither ad makes any mention of what Dobson would actually do if he got to Congress, or why he deserves to be elected instead of me. I’m having to develop a rhino hide against his slings and arrows.

  A burst of late, but still-glorious Indian summer has turned New York into a shimmering golden bowl and tugged at my soul to step outside and revel in it. A last hurrah before late autumn’s breath blows chilly once again. Of course, for me this is a working nature break, because I’ve got a speech to tweak and numerous papers to review, and because I’m a compulsive multitasker I’ve also brought the sweater I’m secretly knitting for Jamie, but there’s no reason I can’t do any of it outdoors. Besides, there were just too many distractions at home for me to work on my speech there. Maureen, who by now has completed jigsaw puzzles of every European capital, has grown testier, fretting about being homesick and missing the rest of her family and her thriving reborn doll business, although she’s not made a move to return to Ireland. It’s strange to me that as a native New Yorker herself, though she’s been here for weeks, she hasn’t displayed even the slightest tinge of hometown nostalgia. She’s not even mildly curious to visit the rest of the city to see how it’s changed (or not) since her departure so many decades ago. When I took her and Brigid up to Washington Heights to visit the Cloisters, Maureen just sniffed and remarked, “We’ve got plenty of Catholic things back in Dublin. Whaddo I need this for?”

  Sitting out here in Central Park, admiring the gold and russet glory of the trees that ring the Great Lawn my mind tends to wander…two pleasant-looking shirtless guys and their gorgeous golden retriever are playing Frisbee. Frisky Maeve, restless by my side, is dead curious about their game. I love days like this. I’m lying here on a blanket, letting the sun warm my face. The sky is so blue and there’s just the hint of a breeze, and suddenly I’m craving cider and a freshly made donut, warm and crisp on the outside and…okay, I should be working on the speech instead of writing in my journal. But I’m not…and I’m thinking about Brigid and what she’ll do about her cop, and what she’ll tell her mother if she decides to go out on a date with him. And this gets me thinking about whether les femmes Doyle ever plan to leave my apartment. Haven’t they gotten the hint that Jamie is pretty well entrenched? He’s now working full-time at the Pot o’Gold, having passed an accredited bartending and mixology course and received state certification permitting him to serve alcohol to the public. He told me he took the course in order to be conversant with local liquor laws, even though he thought the instructors were clueless on a couple of counts. “Their speed test is a feckin’ joke. How are you expected to sorve up twenty drinks in six minutes when it takes three to pull a pint of Guinness!” He tendered his resignation as a hansom cabbie, and his goal appears to be a career where he never needs to wear anything more formal than a tee shirt.

  Maureen had a cow when Maeve used the born-again doll she gave me as a chew toy. She hadn’t the heart to spank the dog, but she terrified the hell out of the poor puppy. Maeve began to howl and the neighbors called the cops, and who should show up at the door but Anthony O’Reilly and his current partner, who happens to be a very attractive policewoman—the first one I’ve seen wearing lipstick and eyeliner who wasn’t a TV character. And Brigid began acting horribly strange—well, horribly strange for a woman planning to become a bride of Christ, not for a young woman enmeshed in a conflicted attraction to a man who doesn’t know her secret and spends most of his day in the company of a comely chica who knows how to use a 9-millimeter.

  An entrepreneurial soul strolls across the lawn selling bottled water, so I buy one for myself and one for my buddy Maeve, pouring it into my empty tuna salad container. Her thirst quenched—but apparently, another craving left unsatisfied, she suddenly bounds off in pursuit of the golden retriever. Was she ever spayed? Why do I not know this!? Is she old enough to be in heat, or is she just curious? I’ve never had a dog before! Please, God, tell me this is a fool’s errand on her part! Are they fighting, playing, or shtup-ping? I am so not ready to deal with doggy sex.

  Whoops! Oh, shit!

  I drop the journal onto my blanket and dash off in pursuit of my amorous puppy, fearful she’ll end up the worse for this encounter, what ever kind it is. She’s several yards from me and by the time I reach her, she and the retriever are entangled in what appears to be some highly energetic canine foreplay, which neither the retriever’s masters nor I are able to break up without risking some bodily harm ourselves. In fact the two bare-chested Frisbee players seem terrified of entering the fray. I have no clue what to do—Maeve didn’t come with a manual—and after shouting her name numerous times proves fruitless, I try to grab her leash. Unsuccessful, I steel myself to try to tackle her. Or maybe I have a better chance at grabbing hold of her new inamorata; he’s bigger and is in an easier, well, position, for me to attempt an interruptus before we get past the point of no return. I’ve seen movies where garden hoses are turned on the dogs, but there’s nothing like that handy in the middle of Central Park. This is what I get for giving my dog a name which in Gaelic means “the intoxicating one.” Make a decision, Tess!

  Here’s hoping the barks are bigger than the—

  I fling myself at the pair of dogs. Damn, the retriever is a lot heavier than I’d anticipated. No, no, dog—down, dog—I am not a bitch, no matter what Bob Dobson says about me. What seems like an eon later I emerge, clutching Maeve like a parcel. Understandably, she’s both exhausted and sexually frustrated. At least that’s what her “thanks a whole fucking lot, Mom” expression seems to say.

  “You’re both bleeding,” one of the retriever’s owners says. Maeve’s got a really nasty cut just above her snout. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything—Jason, do you have any Band-Aids?” His companion dolefully shakes his head.

  “It’s okay, I have some water back at my blanket,” I say, trying to catch my breath. I touch my hand to my face, where I realize there are a couple of stinging cuts. “And I’m sure I’ve got some tissues in my purse.”

  I was so anxious to break up the two dogs that I’d abandoned everything, including my bag, an unwise move in Manhattan. Miraculously, my purse is right where I left it, with my wallet still untouched. I find a few paper napkins, stuffed into my purse during one of many stops—the compulsory gustatory tour every candidate finds themselves making along the campaign trail: a bagel with a schmear here, a slice of pizza there, a taco or two, a stick of sate, a plate of Kung Pao, sushi, spanikopita—it’s a wonder I haven’t gained twenty pounds since I agreed to run for David’s congressional seat. “You, young lady are oversexed!” I chide Maeve gently. And despite her wound, she looks at me as if to ask, “Shouldn’t that be a good thing?” Dampening the napkins, I try to clean off Maeve’s face, but it’s not enough to really cleanse the wound. I gather up my journal and the yarn for the sleeve I was working on, and stuff them back into my bag. Then I wrap Maeve in the blanket and grab her leash, juggling everything as I race out of the park.

  I haven’t a clue where the closest animal hospital is,
so in my panic I take her to the nearest place where people won’t make a fuss if I take the time to try to clean her up, where I know there’s a first-aid kit with some iodine in it, though of course I don’t even know if you can use iodine on a dog’s open cut. I bring her to the Pot o’Gold. Jamie’s there now; he grew up with a dog. He’ll know what to do.

  I blow through the door in a complete panic.

  “Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, what happened to you?” Jamie exclaims.

  “We got caught in a dog fight. Dog fuck, actually,” I amend, lowering my voice.

  “My poor, poor babies,” he says, stepping out from behind the bar and folding me into his arms.

  Breaking the sweet embrace I ask him, “Is her cut bad? Do we need to take her to the vet?” I practically shove the poor little puppy into his face. “Can you fix it?” I murmur plaintively.

  He looks nervous. “Tess, the health department will have everyone’s arse in a sling.” There are only a few patrons in the bar. I don’t recognize any familiar faces, but then again, I don’t tend to frequent bars, even the Pot o’Gold, this early in the day. Jamie grabs the first aid kit and a couple of bar towels. “Meet you in the ladies’ room,” he mutters in my ear.

  I drop the blanket and my big purse on one of the back tables. The bag is spilling over with stuff and sort of flops onto its side, but I’ll deal with it later. Hurt dogs come first. I carry a fretting Maeve into the tiny restroom and a minute or so later Jamie steps inside, and hands me a shotglass.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Anesthetic. No, not for her, silly! For you. I figured you might need it to calm your nerves. You haven’t looked at your own scratches yet, have yiz?”

  It’s not cocktail hour by a long shot, but I toss back the whiskey.

  While Jamie inspects the puppy’s face, I check mine in the mirror. There are a few scratches, in fact; not pretty, but nothing too deep. Nonetheless, I hope they heal by the end of the week. Dobson and I are set to debate on Sunday evening at one of the local news studios, and of course I’ve got a number of personal appearances to make from now until November sixth.

  “I think it looks worse than it is,” he tells me, of Maeve. “You’d better hold her still while I clean the cut. That part isn’t goin’ to make her too happy.”

  The judicious application of soap and water seems to do the trick, though I can’t tell which the puppy likes less: the pain or the washing. “You’re my hero. You know that, right?” I say, bringing my lips to his.

  “That I do. But I love it when you remind me.”

  “You’re probably Maeve’s hero, too.” The puppy licks his face affectionately. “See?”

  “That’s because I’m one of the people who feeds her, walks her, and kept her from an emergency visit to the vet this afternoon.”

  “Nevertheless. We both love you for it. And I love you for a few more reasons than that. Just keep the Milk Duds away from my printer in the future, okay?”

  He looks shocked. “I didn’t—!”

  “Jamie…? They roll.”

  We exit the ladies’ room and I return to the back table to gather up all my stuff. “If this pub thing doesn’t work out, you could always check out veterinary school,” I tell Jamie. “See you back at Casa Craig.” Another soft kiss on the lips from Jamie and I’m out of there.

  It’s not until I get home with Maeve and empty my purse, that I realize—with great horror—that my journal isn’t in it.

  I am paralyzed with panic.

  “Is Jamie at the Pot o’Gold?” Brigid asks me. “Do ya want me to call him?”

  “Yes—please. Ask him to scour the area near the back table where I’d left my bag.”

  “Are ya sure it’s not folded up into the blanket instead?”

  I shake out the blanket, just in case. “Never more positive.”

  “Maybe it fell out of your bag on the way home. Let’s retrace your steps,” she offers. “C’mon, Mum. We’ll scour the neighborhood.”

  Leaving Maeve in the apartment, Maureen, Brigid, and I comb the streets of the Upper West Side in search of my journal, poking through trash cans, scouring curbsides, and finally reaching the spot on Great Lawn where I had parked my blanket before the dog fight incident, though I’m certain I shoved it back into my bag after rescuing Maeve. No trace of it—which is more or less what I’d expected, but Brigid thought we should cover all the bases, just in case. The Frisbee players with the golden retriever are gone. We ask the few remaining people in the area, those souls desperate to catch the last rays of Indian summer sunlight, whether they saw anything, but we come up empty-handed. My heart threatens to pound right out of my chest, even as I attempt to appear calm. After all, these folks are potentially my voters. Some picture of unruffled leadership I’d make, if I showed my panic at this moment!

  Disheartened and demoralized, we leave the park. “I need a drink,” Maureen sighs.

  “Make mine a triple,” I say. The previous shot of Jameson’s hadn’t even made a dent.

  “I could use one too,” adds Brigid. Her mother gives her a dirty glance. “What?” She looks a bit squirrelly, as if she’s afraid Maureen can read her mind.

  We head back to the Pot o’Gold. I bury my face into Jamie’s shoulder for several moments and enjoy the security of his embrace. “We didn’t find it,” I whisper.

  “Oh, mo cushla,” he murmurs. Stroking my hair, he adds, “Go in there and have a nice cry, and I’ll have some mollification all ready for you when you come out.”

  In the claustrophobic ladies’ room at the Pot o’Gold, I burst into sobs. My life is in that book—every compromising detail, my deepest feelings and darkest thoughts. Mentally, I beat myself up over not taking everything into the ladies’ room with me in the first place, even if there was no place to hang it up or put it down.

  Everyone in the bar knows who I am; Tessa Craig can’t have a nervous breakdown in front of them. Jamie pours my whiskey into a ceramic coffee cup and counsels me to sip it slowly. I know it’s bass-ackwards, but I request a beer chaser. Sitting in a booth with Maureen and Brigid, I pray that this is a nightmare of horrific proportions from which I will soon awaken, with nothing worse than a cold and clammy sweat for my troubles.

  Homesick for Irish cooking, Maureen orders a plate of fish and chips. In the past few weeks, since Jamie’s been talking extensively with the pub’s owner, the kitchen has vastly improved and now the dish much more closely resembles the one served at Blackpools.

  Brigid tucks into a burger. She looks nervous. After a few bites, she starts drumming her fingers on the table. “Mum…I need to tell you something.”

  Maureen looks up from her fish, fork poised in midair. “Is something wrong, Bridge?”

  “Wrong? I…I don’t know that it’s wrong, but it’s…Mum, I’ve met someone. A man.”

  “And?” Maureen asks anxiously, shoveling the morsel of fish into her mouth before it falls off the fork.

  “And…I’m not so sure I want to go ahead with becoming a sister. Poverty and obedience are tough enough to vow, but—” She glances anxiously at me. “I’m having second thoughts about the chastity…the…celibacy thing. Mum, I’m thinking of calling an end to my candidacy and leaving the community house. I’m no longer certain I can commit to the decision I made last year…and which I may regret for the rest of me life.”

  Maureen’s face turns crimson. The poor woman, utterly blindsided by her daughter’s confession, looks like a blowfish. She begins to cough and gasp for air—and all of sudden Brigid and I realize that she’s choking.

  “Jamie! Help! Does anyone here know the Heimlich maneuver?!” Poolside images of David Weyburn and Kelly Adonis flash before my eyes.

  Jamie vaults the bar and in a split second he’s at the booth, trying to help his mother. “What happened?!”

  “I told her I was thinking of callin’ a halt to my discernment and she torned all red and started choking,” a highly flustered Brigid tells him. “Have I killed
Mum? Oh, God, it’s a sign. I never should have thought about sex.”

  I’m on the phone with 911 and they’re summoning an ambulance. Jamie’s Heimlich efforts are proving unsuccessful. I can hear the siren already, but his mother’s color has gone from red to blue by the time the ambulance lurches up to the curb.

  The EMS technicians part the bar’s patrons like Moses and the Israelites fording the Red Sea. One of them, thumping on Maureen’s chest, dislodges a fishbone from her throat, but she’s not reviving. As Jamie races into the kitchen to eviscerate the cook, the paramedic administers mouth to mouth, but it becomes apparent that it’s going to take more to get her heart started. The paddles come out and after five calls of “Clear!” they’re once more getting signs of life, enough to get her into the ambulance. I’ve been holding my breath—and Brigid’s hand—throughout this ordeal. Maureen and I have never quite gotten along, but of course I’d feel dreadful if she died. Especially in this way, after choking on a fishbone, for God’s sake.

  Jamie leaves the bartending duties to one of the waiters and we all pile into the ambulance. During the tense ride to the hospital, Maureen’s heart stops again. Several terrifying moments later, the paramedic has jump-started her once more, but only after administering an injection. I can feel my nails digging into my palms from gripping Jamie and Brigid’s hands so tightly.

  For me it’s “déjà vu all over again” as Maureen is wheeled into the E.R. and from there, having been stabilized, straight up to the cardiac care unit. And damned if Dr. Magali Gupta isn’t the cardio on duty to night.

  “Miss Craig, I’m sorry to see you here again so soon,” she says to me.

  “Some people have heart attacks and other people seem to give them,” I sigh gloomily. “I guess I’m a carrier.” I introduce her to Jamie and Brigid, who provides Dr. Gupta with her mother’s medical history.

  “She’s always been healthy as a horse. Until now. I gave her a bit of bad news back there in the pub and I was afraid it killed her.”