Ms. Taken Identity (30 page)

My father shows up just before kickoff, with Nathan.

“Did we miss anything?” Nathan asks anxiously.

I assure him he didn’t, after which he settles in with a soda and handful of chips.

“He was getting a bit antsy,” my father leans over to tell me. “We’ve been working at the course all day.”

“I thought you were closed for the season.”

“The course is. But I’m renovating inside the clubhouse. I’ve put if off all winter, but if I want to open up in early spring,
now’s the time to get it done.”

“You’re doing it yourself?”

“What I can. I have help from my course manager, Kip, and a couple of guys he’s hired.”

The game gets under way, with a near touchdown on the first run from scrimmage.

“I could help out,” I say, a few plays later. “If you need it.”

He slows down on the pretzels he’s chewing, aware that this is something of a moment. “That’d be great.”

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 for
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.

I
t 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.