by Jim Kraus
I may not be hideous—like that actor in The Elephant Man who wheezed, angrily, “I am not an animal!” No, my appearance would not be placed in that panic-inducing category, but neither could I be considered a knockout. I could be classified as pleasant looking. I believe I told you how Jacob described me—pretty, not beautiful. Most of what he said still applied. Of course, I was older than that now. There were more wrinkles around my eyes these days. I think, if anything, my face is thinner, more detailed now than it has ever been. My eyes are still clear and focused. My face still lights up when I smile—that is what people tell me.
Yet perhaps the sum of all of me—all of my face and my figure, such as it is (normal, not bosomy, nor svelte, but normal, thank you very much)—had not been enough to get Brian’s pulse ticking upward. I could have dressed more . . . provocatively, but that would have been like a butcher slipping his thumb on the scales: cheating. (Do butchers still do that? Did they ever do that?)
No, if Brian called again, he would do so because he saw something inside of me that attracted him, not because he saw down my blouse and saw something there that attracted him.
So how do I explain all of this to a dog? Dogs don’t look down blouses.
Unless they think that you have hidden dog treats in your bra. Which I have never done.
“Rufus,” I said.
Rufus slowed, then stopped, and looked back up at me, over his shoulder. Is it called a shoulder on a dog? Well, yes, it is. Dogs have disconnected shoulder bones (lacking the collarbone of the human skeleton) that allow a greater stride length for running and leaping. Thank you, Wikipedia.
He waited. I think that maybe talking proved difficult for him—difficult for him to make the proper vocalizations—so he didn’t spend a lot of time chitchatting.
“So, now that I’ve been out on a date with Brian, what do I do?”
Rufus stared at me, nearly immobile, as if trying to see my eyes.
“Are you asking if you should mate with him now? You said that you don’t do that.”
I had my hand on my hip in my best “peeved June Cleaver” imitation.
“Rufus, that is not my question. You don’t have to worry about me . . . mating with anyone before it is the proper time.”
Rufus looked away. A rustling occurred in the tree to our left. It might have been a squirrel, but there were no warning chirps from the branches. And I thought most squirrels were already hibernating—or in their winterized torpor state. (That I knew without looking at Wikipedia.)
“Okay,” he responded and began to walk.
“If he calls me, do I go out with him again?”
Rufus did not break stride.
Then I found myself voicing the question that made me sound even more like a lunatic than ever before. “Do you think I should go out with him again?”
Even that question did not break the dog’s stride.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t met him.”
“Do you need to meet him?”
Rufus snorted. “What does that funny man say on that funny show—the one with Santa’s Little Helper?”
“The Simpsons? Homer Simpson?”
Santa’s Little Helper is the Simpson family dog.
“Is he fat?” Rufus asked. “That’s him, then. What does he say?”
“D’oh?”
I don’t think Rufus laughed. Or at least I never heard him laugh. I am pretty sure that he found some things amusing, or funny, or worthy of a smile, if he could smile, which he couldn’t. He did like to watch The Simpsons with me on Sunday nights.
“D’oh,” I repeated and I saw his shoulders, even though they were disconnected, lurch a notch, like he might have been silently laughing.
“So I need to bring him home?”
Rufus did not answer, for the question answered itself. Of course I would have to bring him home. Rufus would have to meet him. And Rufus would tell me if Brian was an honorable man.
Yes.
And now, who sounds like a total and complete lunatic, the grand sort of lunatic who has lost all tethers with reality?
I do, of course, and Rufus and I remained silent on the remainder of our walk. I even stopped tossing dog treats to the poor animal, even though I think he stared at me over his disconnected shoulder, wondering why the treat supply had suddenly gone dry.
On the third day, I was ready.
I admit to having practiced some lines and responses, speaking aloud to the empty rooms, as if he had actually called. I made sure not to do it near any of the Jacob pictures. I would not want Rufus to think I had gone off the deep end again.
Who am I kidding? I had been there and back already, right?
The phone rang at 11:00. I didn’t think he would call at 11:00, since he had a job and all. Hard to call for a second date in the middle of a workday, I imagined.
The call came from California.
The only person I knew, or at least knew well enough to be calling me, in California, was my literary agent. It would be either really good news, or really discouraging news. Middle ground seldom existed with Marcella.
Who in their right mind names a perfectly normal child Marcella? I suppose it was unique and memorable. Maybe the odd name became her ticket to being a profitable agent.
“So how is my favorite Amish pro doing these days?”
I was her go-to writer of all things Amish. Over the years, I had pitched a number of different story ideas and different plots and settings and characters and religious backgrounds—from histrionic Presbyterians to gum-chewing Catholics to secular humanists to normal, everyday Christian people like Ned Flanders on The Simpsons. But hardly anything other than your standard Amish novel, and the occasional Quaker and Mennonite novel, had sold. I had written two non-Christian books that were published by a small press in Kansas. Both received good reviews yet they both suffered from lack of sales and distribution. Talk about an actor who is typecast—or branded by one role. I became a “branded” author. I didn’t mind, mostly, since I was a writer, a working writer, who actually had books published. That is more than 99 percent of the writers in America can say. And I had more than one book published—again—more than most writers can ever hope to say. But I am now typecast as the nice writer who doesn’t talk about sex or write about violent things in her books (other than the weather). I had grown tired of it. I wanted to branch out, but no one had given me the opportunity.
“I’m doing fine. And you?”
Marcella did not need a large conversational opening. We didn’t talk that often because Marcella talked so much. I let her go on and on, about the weather, her cats, her in-laws, the crazy California politics, and the threat of the next big earthquake.
Finally, she arrived, in a very circuitous way, to me—and to my literary efforts. Marcella had not gotten rich off of me, but she probably made her car payments for the past several years through my book sales.
She did not wrap bad news in gay ribbons and bows.
“No one is buying Amish anymore, Mary. I hate to tell you, but your last proposal received no interest from any of our previous publishers.”
“No one?”
This was the bad, drug-dealing twin sister of the good Amish girl who stayed home.
“Nope.”
Her reply sat there, like a fat goose in a hunter’s crosshairs.
“You have any vampire books? I know that a vampire who believes in God is sort of a contradiction in terms, but they are buying vampire stories.”
Vampire stories? I don’t do vampires.
“Or werewolves, maybe. They’re not quite as sexy as vampires, but I might be able to sell one of those. You have anything like that?”
Usually, I would have snapped at the chance to try something new—but vampires? Or worse yet, werewolves? I just couldn’t see how I could make that work.
“Well. Think about it. Maybe you’ll come up with an angle on that.”
“What about the New York houses?” I ask
ed. “Are they buying Amish? I could make it less . . . less religious, I guess. A little sexier, even.”
Marcella laughed, though not pleasantly.
“New York isn’t buying anything unless your name is Rowling or King or Turow. Or Clancy. They are playing it safe and no one is paying for unknowns these days.”
I took a breath. It felt as though my literary career had entered a new phase: dead.
“I know you’re not an unknown everywhere, but you are in New York circles. If you lived under a bridge for a while, then I could sell you as a new writer. An unknown primitive, who has a unique voice that no one has heard yet.”
I didn’t want to live under a bridge—or even a secluded viaduct. How would Rufus adapt to living in a cardboard box by the freeway?
“No. I don’t think that will work,” I answered. “Let me think about the werewolf idea, though. Maybe I can come up with something.”
“You do that,” Marcella replied. “You think about it. Let me know if you can whip up a proposal for some sort of supernatural thriller. I think I could sell that for you. If it’s the right concept.”
We exchanged some pleasantries and she said she would “keep beating the bushes, but don’t hold your breath.” She suggested that I might benefit if I took a few months off to think about where I might be heading as a writer—as if it wasn’t a concept that didn’t occupy all my thoughts anyhow.
She gave me a cheery good-bye and said that I should stay in touch.
I hung up the phone and sat there, almost totally dumbfounded.
Rufus sat in his chair watching me, his eyes narrowed as if he was sleepy, which I knew he was not. I think he felt bad for me and realized that he had no answers either.
Maybe Brian is fabulously wealthy and desires me so much that he’ll help me self-publish my next effort—whatever it might be.
Yes, and dogs can talk, right? That will be the day.
I would have to do something. I needed to sell another book. Or find a job. Or have something remarkable happen in my life.
Like maybe my dog could tell me what to do next.
Right?
7
Brian called later that day, at 5:15. At first, I imagined that he had just finished work, and rushed home to call me. He didn’t, since he called from a cell phone.
The French-sounding voice on my answering machine said: “cell-uuu-larh cahl.”
I was still in a funk about Marcella’s call. I spent most of the afternoon wandering about the house looking for direction.
“Hi,” he said. “I wanted to tell you that I had a good time with you . . . over coffee. Or tea, I guess, in my case.”
I told him that I did too.
“Would you like to try a real dinner? Maybe Saturday?”
“Saturday would be good.”
“That’s great,” he said, his voice full of relief. “I could pick you up this time, okay?”
At least Rufus would have a chance to meet him.
“How about Ki’s?” he asked.
Ki’s has a reputation as a pretty good restaurant—sort of an older person’s place, complete with a bar and not-completely-awful lounge singers, Barbie Jean and the DelMontes, with their glossy eight by ten photos thumbtacked to a wall in the lobby.
Yes, I made that up.
“Okay,” I replied. It would be a real date and we could see how things would work out.
“We’ll go Dutch, if that’s okay with you. No pressure that way.”
I wouldn’t have felt any pressure if he wanted to pay for my food, but I guess I understood. His “going Dutch” request was not an automatic penalty, not a red flag, but I admit that the ref made a motion to pull the flag from his pocket and hesitated at the last moment and let the infraction slide—just this once.
You don’t live with a football fan for all those seasons without some of it rubbing off on you.
No penalty, but the ref would keep a close eye on the game from that moment on.
“Ki’s?” Ava asked, cradling the phone to her cheek. “Seriously? Well, it is better than Hooter’s.”
“He wouldn’t have ever suggested Hooter’s,” I responded, defending Brian for no good reason, shuffling about my kitchen, wearing Jacob’s old, too-big, yet luxurious, lamb’s wool slippers that I bought for him the Christmas before . . . before the accident. I would have donated them to charity, but I hadn’t done that with any of his other clothes, and I didn’t have a pair of slippers of my own. His were sufficient. And warm.
“Don’t kid yourself, Mary.”
“I’m not. But not all men are like Dr. Tom.”
“Thank God,” Ava replied. “Grease would be our national food if he had anything to say about it.”
“But he looks healthy, Ava. You’re always on him about his diet—but he looks good.”
“Freak of nature, that’s all. If I ate what he eats, I’d be like one of those women on The Jerry Springer Show in a few months.”
I poured a third cup of coffee. I suspect people think I obsess about coffee. I really don’t. I just happen to drink way too much of it. Some days—maybe twenty cups. I know, I know—but most of them are small cups. And I’m not overly jittery. Honest.
“Anyhow, Ki’s is a good place. Older crowd.”
“I know. But you can talk there. I went to that new Italian place in Glen Ellyn with Beverly and her husband . . .”
“You went out with a married couple? How kind of them,” Ava said.
“Don’t be mean. They are nice people,” I replied.
Ava waited a beat, then added, “Did she wear gingham?”
I would have spit out my coffee laughing, had I just drunk a mouthful—which I hadn’t.
“She did.”
“With lace at the collar?”
“All of her dresses have lace at the collar,” I said and then hated myself, just a little, for being mean and gossipy. But the truth is the truth. Beverly dressed as if she stepped out of a J. C. Penney’s catalog, circa 1953. She did have an unmistakable style about her. I would have said pre-Beatles, premodern, pre-style. “But I’m talking about the restaurant here. It’s too loud, and we had to actually shout at one another to be heard. Most uncomfortable.”
“Yep, Ki’s is much better. You will call me afterward to tell me all about it, right? I have a vested interest in this love match.”
“It’s not a love match, Ava. It’s just a date.”
She waited a second.
“That’s not what I’m going to tell Bernice,” she said coolly, and then promptly hung up—all before I could shout at her, in mock anger, that if she breathed a word of this date to anyone, I would stalk her down and break her arm.
Keeping secrets. Sheesh.
What am I? Sixteen?
Rufus stared up at me from his pet bed—his usual spot during my morning coffees—narrowed his eyes, and rolled onto his side, evidence of his desire to be left alone and absolved of answering any of my foolish morning questions.
Later that morning, I looked in my wallet. I don’t make a habit of looking in my wallet. I guess looking there sort of happens in the course of a day—like when I buy something. But I wanted to check on my cash supply. I tried to pay cash for most of my smaller purchases. It gave me a better feel for where my money was going. That’s what the lady financial guru said on her finance show on cable—the woman with the big teeth and even bigger grin. It’s easy for her to tell people what they can buy and what they can’t; she has millions of dollars and two homes and who knows what else. Even if I did everything she said, I would never become rich. Unless I wrote a financial book like she did. Which I can’t, because I’m terrible at finances. Yet I did follow her advice about paying in cash. I think the advice came from her. Maybe it might have been from that other guy, who looked like he dressed in clothing from a Goodwill store. Not that I am anti-poor or anything. Or anti-charity. But if you’re on TV, even if it is cable TV, wear something else other than striped polo shirts that look
too small on you.
I had nineteen dollars in my purse and way too much change. I took the change out, more pennies than anything else, and dropped it into the large, clear jar, half-filled with mostly pennies, on the far kitchen counter.
One day, I’ll take that to the bank and have it counted.
Even though the last time I did that, I got more than a few semi-angry glares from the teller. They count money all day. How hard is it for them to pour a jar full of coins into that machine that does the counting for them?
I would need to go to the bank for actual cash before my date . . . my dinner at Ki’s. It would be easier to put down cash on the table—since we’d be splitting the bill—than it would be to figure out how much the waitress should assign to two credit cards.
I knew I should check out my bank balances then. Maybe my checking account needed additional funds. Maybe I would need to transfer money from the larger savings account. I sat at the computer, Rufus followed me back into the office, of course. I am sure he thought that there might be food involved somehow. There wouldn’t be, of course, but a dog can hope, right?
I typed in my impossibly long user name and even longer, more complicated password. The password had to be eleven characters long and include at least two numbers. Who can remember all that? I used the state of my birth—Pennsylvania—and the year of my birth. (If you’re a hacker, please ignore what I just wrote.) The bank’s cheery website came up and welcomed me by name.
The balance in my checking account stood at $783.53. No big bills were coming, so that should be sufficient for a while. I clicked back a page to check the savings account balance. I didn’t often look at the number, but when I did this time, the amount shocked me—sort of. It was smaller than I remembered. Much smaller. Dwindled is the word that popped into my head. I did have Jacob’s insurance money deposited in a separate account—some $200,000. I still had a mortgage on the house. Jacob had taken out a policy that paid off maybe half of the outstanding mortgage when he . . . when he . . .
How do I describe to myself what happened? “Passed away” seems too much like a funeral director’s euphemism. “Died” seemed abrupt—and he didn’t die. He was killed. Both he and our son suffered the same fate. I guess I seldom mentioned it to myself, so the few times it came up, I stumbled.