by Dan Begley
And almost like nothing happened, we go back to watching the game.
I stop by the course the next day, after teaching. There’s progress already: the old carpet is up and the walls have been measured for drywall. (My father thinks it’ll be easier to put drywall over the paneling, then paint, rather than ripping the paneling off. I’m sure Bradley would know which way is best, but it’d be hard to get an answer out of him since we don’t speak to each other anymore.) Kip and I and the crew finish around seven, having pried up the tack boards and installed new ones halfway around.
On my way home, because it’s not that far out of the way, I swing by the studio. It’s my first time going since Marie and I broke up. I don’t go in. I just cruise past the lot, slowly, to see what I can see, and what I don’t see is Marie’s car. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything: she probably just skipped out on tonight’s lesson, or she’s parked around back or beside an SUV, and I just can’t see it.
But I go again on Thursday, and this time I pull into the lot and actually go up and down the aisles, and there’s definitely no VW. Maybe she’s gotten a new car. Maybe the lessons with Adonis aren’t on Mondays and Thursdays anymore. Or maybe she just stopped going. That’s the possibility I like least. I don’t want to think she stopped doing something she loved doing, especially if it had anything to do with me. If that’s the case, I’d like to tell her just to go back to the way she was before we met, happy going to dance class and out for drinks and karaoke and whatever it was she did. But it doesn’t always work that way after a breakup, does it? Slipping back into your old life.
Back at my apartment, I’m feeling a little gloomy myself. I’ve always been on the loner side, with one or two great friends—like Bradley—but being with Marie changed me, made me more social, since we were always hopping around here or there, especially with our studio friends. I miss all that, Rosie and her vavooms!, Fran and her cats, even Gina and horny Dave. Now it’s just… me. The apartment feels too big. I’ve been watching TV just to hear people talk. There are days when I don’t even feel like writing. So on Saturday morning I get up, get dressed and eat, and head out to pick myself up a new friend.
Going to the pound can be brutal. You know dogs were meant to be with people, and none of them wants to be here, cramped up in one of those absurd cages, so you start feeling you might have to take all of them home, but you can’t, of course, so you think maybe you should just work here, see that they all get taken care of; but you realize some of them wind up being put down, which you wouldn’t allow, so you might be tempted to sneak in after hours and set them all free, which could land you in a different sort of pound. How about those thoughts for a Saturday morning?
But I have a plan. As I walk the line of cages, I’m not looking for the cute dog, the one with irresistible eyes or a playful demeanor or sturdy frame, because dogs like that have no problem finding a home. I want the dog that may not be around next week, and not because he’s been adopted. I think I’ve found him.
He’s lying in the back of his cage, not really facing me. I crouch down and he doesn’t react. He’s not what you’d call a pretty dog; his coat is dark and a little dull, and he looks like he has a bit of German shepherd in him. He’s also too skinny. I give him a few “hey boys” and still nothing, just a little once-over with his eyes, and what his eyes are saying is “I’m tired.” Not tired from a morning of chasing squirrels or fetching a tennis ball or Frisbee or digging in the yard, but tired of this, being in this cage, lying here, seeing all these people, watching the other dogs come and go.
I flag down an attendant and ask if I can take a dog outside. She says they prefer to keep them inside, in the visiting room. But when I show her which one, she says okay, as if realizing this is a special case. On the leash heading out, he doesn’t try to pull and trails a little bit behind me, and I get the feeling he thinks he’s on his way to the room where dogs go and don’t come out. To his surprise, I think, we head toward the front doors and daylight, which brings a slight flutter to his tail.
I bring him to the patch of grass and trees on the side of the parking lot, and he immediately does what all dogs do: sniff. But I don’t think he’s sniffing it like other dogs, just for the hell of it, just to see who’s been there; he’s sniffing grass and trees and dirt and fresh air, all the things he doesn’t have inside his cage. And as I watch him go about his business, and the tail gets a life and his ears perk up, and there’s a bounce to his step, and he turns his nose to the breeze and tracks the flight of a yellow jacket and nips at it, and angles himself in front of me when he sees another dog, as if to protect me, I get the feeling that if I march him back into that place and let them take him back to his cage and the fluorescent lighting, and the noise and smell of the other dogs, and the people who just file by with barely a glance, he’ll find a way to make his heart stop before the sun comes up tomorrow.
I have a dog.
We go to the pet shop and pick up a bed and food and collar and leash, and they also have one of those machines that makes a name tag. I always figured that when I got a dog, I’d name him after a character from Greek mythology or favorite artist or literary theorist, so that when I called his name—“Here, Derrida”—people would look at me and think, “Now there’s a guy with taste.” But watching him sit on the floor, like dogs are supposed to sit, I realize he is a dog, and that’s what he wants to be. Why should I saddle him with some pretentious name that’s more about feeding my ego than letting him be what he is? The name on his card at the pound said “Bo,” which seems like a perfectly good name for a dog. So Bo it is.
When we get back to the apartment, I let him sniff around and make friendly with the place and let it sink in that this isn’t a dream. I take him for a walk and serve him his first meal, which he scarfs down, and since I don’t want to leave him by himself, not on his first day, we hang out together and watch some hockey. He isn’t the most friendly chap, not yet anyway, and he likes to keep a bit of distance between us, so I respect that, let him lie on his bed in the living room, and when I tell him goodnight, he’s still there. But before I fall asleep, I hear him pad into the bedroom and come to the side of my bed. I put my hand out and he licks it, then he settles at the foot of my bed.
Katharine calls the next day to bring me up to speed on everything. I’d expected her agent or publicist or Brent to take over Catwalk Mama update duties after we signed the deal in New York, but apparently she thinks Bradley’s a darling and can’t get enough of being Catwalk Mama’s midwife.
“Hear that sound, Mitch? That’s the sound of people loving this book. Susannah’s sent out a few promotional copies and gotten some quotes for the back cover. Listen to these.” She shuffles some papers. “‘A new kind of chick heroine is slipping into her stilettos: the sexy, sassy, soccer mama. This one scores, early and often.’ That’s from the woman who wrote Mr. Right Now. Here’s another, from Sandra Greene: ‘Catwalk Mama is a p-u-r-r- f-e-c-t-l-y scrumptious read.’ And she even got one from Lauren Weisberger.”
“The Devil Wears Prada Lauren Weisberger? What’d she have to say?”
She tells me.
“Holy crap.”
“I know. It’s great. Regency House is also getting the front cover together. It’s a plain Jane looking into a mirror, and the face staring back is a drop-dead gorgeous model. Do you want me to have them send you and Bradley a copy?”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“Then that’s good enough for me.”
There’s a pause, and I think I’ve said the wrong thing, that she’s picked up I’m not interested. But then she laughs. “You know, it’s a pleasure working on this with you. You’re so easy.”
Ah, yes, Katharine: I’m easy all right. Which is what got me in trouble in the first place.
She tells me I should have Bradley put together her author bio in the next couple of weeks, which is doable, then we chat about the movie deal she’s got in the works f
or The Cappuccino Club, the new car she’s bought (a Mini Cooper), and the fact that she’s gone back to blond—again. Somehow it comes out that I’ve broken up with my girlfriend, and that tidbit hangs in the air for a moment.
“I’ll be in Chicago next weekend,” she says. “If you want to come up…”
There’s no good reason why I shouldn’t. She’s single. I’m single. And it’s not like she’s looking for a commitment or promise ring or anything. Just a few days of adult-consenting playtime. But I get the feeling it’d be one of those cotton candy weekends—addictively, deliciously fun—and when it’s all said and done, I’d feel sick. And guilty. And hungry for something else. So I tell her I’m helping my dad.
“Ah. C’est la vie, Mitch. Perhaps another time.”
And, because she’s Katharine Longwell, and probably has a dozen other guys on hold right now, she says it without missing a beat.
For Bradley’s author bio, I could say all sorts of things about how she loves chocolate and shoes and shopping, that she has a collection of Marc Jacobs clutches and hopes to fit into a size eight one day. But Katharine told me to keep it short and simple, to play up the mystery angle, so I do. Besides, why should I embellish at this point? Bradley is enough of an embellishment, in her own skin. So here’s what I come up with: “Bradley enjoys dancing and music, and lives in St. Louis with her dog Bo. This is Bradley’s first novel.” Short and simple and all true, except for the pronoun her. But even that bothers me, as does using Bo’s real name, since, if I’m not comfortable enough to attach my name to the project, why should he? Thus I revise: “Bradley enjoys dancing and music, and lives in St. Louis with a dog named Belle. This is Bradley’s first novel.” Substitute Mitch for Bradley, Bo for Belle, and you’ve got nothing but the truth. Besides, it’s not like I called the thing a memoir and made up stories about all the time I spent in jail, then got scolded on Oprah because she picked me as her book club selection and then got embarrassed when it turned out I’d made a lot of it up. It’s a novel. It’s fiction. I made all of it up. Including the author.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It stays cold for most of February—St. Louis celebrates President’s Day with its annual barrage of furniture store sales and eight inches of snow—and even into March, but I keep going to the course, doing what I can. By the time March gives way to April, and warmer weather, the clubhouse is finished and we turn our attention from inside to the course itself.
Maintaining a golf course is more than just keeping the grass cut short and watering it. You need specialized grass—Kentucky Bent, around here—and all sorts of specialized information about it, such as how to cut it, when to cut it, in which direction to cut it, what kind of machine to use, and how to deal with spike marks and bugs and disease. It’s like keeping a vineyard, only the end result isn’t a glass of wine; it’s an immaculate canvas of green that promises true bounces and honest rolls, so that when the day is done and the golfer has shot his round, he can blame his spotty performance on his clubs or his ball or his playing partner or the angle of the sun—sometimes, even himself—but never the course. Fortunately, our course manager Kip, with his twenty years’ experience in the field, is a genius at doing it right.
I prefer to be outside, on the course, but I do hang around inside at times with my father, mostly to humor him. He likes to show me how the books work—payroll, insurance, equipment fees, beer and concessions, even the damn electric and water bills—and he’s so earnest when he does it that I don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s not interesting to me. I’m not a numbers or money guy. And speaking of that, it’s pretty clear this isn’t a huge moneymaker. He does okay, but he’s never going to be a gazillionaire off his par three course. Of course, that’s not why he does it.
I still haven’t figured out what kind of a dog Bo is, in terms of his breed, but at least I do know what he was born to do: live on a golf course. I bring him with me every time I go and he loves it. So much, in fact, that I feel bad bringing him back to the apartment. At the course, he has fresh air and geese to chase and warm grass to lie on, a best buddy in Shep, and golfers who scruff him under the chin; at the apartment he has hardwood floors, and me. But he seems happy enough just to have a home, and he treats me like I’m the greatest person on the face of the earth. Which, I have to admit, I like.
My mother and I get together the first weekend in June to celebrate the end of her school year and mine. When I get back to the apartment, there’s a box for me on the doorstep. It’s a box of books. Catwalk Mama books. I’m holding my book.
“I persuaded them to send the first batch your way, so you could get them right to Bradley,” Katharine practically squeals when I get her on the phone. “The rest ship out next week, all over the country.”
“To stores?”
“To stores, Mitch. That’s where they sell them. And the publicity machine’s already cranking into overdrive. They’ve had ads in USA Today and People. I’ve even shuffled the publicity rounds for my own material to coincide with the release, so I’ll make sure Catwalk Mama gets plenty of attention. Which gives me a thought…” Even through the phone, I can hear her mind do something of a double take. “What about you, Mitch?”
“What about me what?”
“How about we team up, you make a few appearances with me.”
Oh Christ. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“I think it’s a great idea. Think about the angle. You come on with me, explain how we met at the coffee shop, how you told me about your cousin. People will eat it up.”
I panic for a moment, then several, before a lightbulb flips on in my brain. “But then they’ll know it’s my cousin,” I point out triumphantly, relieved to find a flaw in her plan. “Her anonymity would be shot.”
She barely slows down. “Then we won’t say she’s your cousin. We’ll say she’s a friend. An acquaintance. Which means Bradley’s off the hook.”
And I’m back on it, right through my jugular vein. “I just don’t know…”
“Come on, Mitch. This is nuts. Don’t make me beg.” She says it with half a laugh, but there’s more than a trace of exasperation in her voice. “Besides, this isn’t about me. It’s about Bradley and her book and the chance to change her life. Do it for her, why don’t you.”
Do it for her. Why don’t you.
And just like that, the curtain falls and my eyes snap open and I get a glimpse into what’s been fueling Katharine’s fervor to get Bradley published these last few months: that, yeah, maybe she likes me and enjoys the hanky-panky and wouldn’t mind more, but this has always been about Bradley and her book. Because she sees what she once was in Bradley and wants to make her dreams come true. My made-up cousin means that much to her. It almost chokes me up.
“Okay, how about we make a deal,” Katharine continues. “I have Regis and Kelly at the end of the month. If Catwalk Mama is in the top five, you come on with me, just for a few minutes.”
“In the top five what?”
“Bestsellers.”
“Times bestsellers?”
“The one and only.”
Jesus. “If Catwalk Mama is in the top five of the New York Times’ bestsellers, then yes, I’ll come on Regis and Kelly with you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good. See you in a few weeks.”
After we hang up, I sit down with a beer and a copy of my book and page through it. After all those months of seeing it as scribbled notes in a notebook, and blue-bordered chunks of text in a Microsoft document called “catWmama,” here it is: a hardback book, with crackly spine and fancy typeface and new paper smell. I run my hands over the glossy cover, read the quotes on the back jacket, trace my finger over both the American and Canadian prices. I show it to Bo and he sniffs it, and when I tell him that’s my ISBN, the only book that will ever have those digits, he cocks his head and gives his tail a little thump on the floor, because I think he gets it. The funny t
hing is, I could get hit by a car tonight and die, and no one would ever know I’d written it, because Bo wouldn’t tell; and when they came to clean out my apartment, they’d see the box of Catwalk Mama books by Bradley Gallagher and scratch their heads and say, “Why the hell does he have those?” Maybe I should write a note and tape it to the mirror in my bathroom, or leave it in my sock drawer, explaining everything. Of course, I could also just trust that Bradley and Marie would come out of the woodwork and clear things up, cement my posthumous legacy.
Then again, I should probably just write that note.
Scott wants to do Father’s Day at his house, have our dad and his father-in-law over for a barbecue. That’s fine with me, since he actually has a tradition with Dad for this day. I have no tradition, other than sometimes picking up the phone, sometimes dialing it, and sometimes speaking to him. But I insist that the day before, we head down to a Cardinals game, the three of us, along with Nathan and Jessica and Kyle.
It’s one of those June St. Louis afternoons that’s warm for the season (technically we’re still in spring, but tell that to the humidity). Nathan and Kyle have brought gloves in hopes of snaring a foul ball, and Jessica has brought a stuffed Dalmatian named Raz, which offers no help in snaring a foul ball, but she didn’t want to be empty-handed. We’ve also brought a cooler with sodas and goodies to munch on. The game flies by, and Nathan keeps score on the scorecard, trying to explain to Kyle how it’s done, and Scott documents a little bit of everything with his digital camera.
During the seventh-inning stretch, after I’ve sung along with everyone else about buying peanuts and Cracker Jacks and rooting for the home team, I head to the concession stand. I’ve got thirty bucks burning a hole in my pocket, so I grab beers for the three adults. I’m not happy with the way they’re situated in the little cardboard carrying tray, and I’m standing next to the counter trying to adjust them when I hear someone call out my name.