Stepdog (14 page)

O
h Jesus,” I said, and before I could stop myself, added, for clarity: “Fuck!” I dropped the cutlass and sprang toward the dog. “Cody! Cody,
leave it
!
Drop it!
”

Cody didn't mind leaving it, since there was nothing left. She turned to me with a crafty look in her eye, rapidly and energetically licking her chops. Her expression seemed to say:
Everything is going to be different now. I'm never listening to you again unless there's chocolate cake.

In the background, like a movie sound track, I heard the slow-motion mutterings of concerned voices, with every possible variant of “chocolate is toxic to dogs” uttered in a range of tones—blaming, shaming, fearful, blaming, mournful, angry, sad, resigned, blaming, pedantic, and some blaming, too.

“Cody!” I cried again. It took forever to reach her, like I was running through molasses, and once I actually had my hands on her, I didn't know what to do. My mind went blank with panic. I grabbed her collar and tried to open her jaws with my free hand, as if I could reach down her throat and pull the cake back out.

I felt as if I were surrounded by the entire morning population
of the park. Nick wasn't crying, thank God; that relieved the tiny corner of my mind still aware of him and his birthday celebration. But he was definitely mimicking the concern of his mum and all the other grown-ups. All the grown-ups who were responsible enough not to poison their spouse's dog.

From the chaos came one clear, strong, calm voice: Jay's. “Let's get her to my house,” he said, a hand on my shoulder. “It's right there.”

“What do we do?” I said in a shaken voice. “We have to call a vet. Sara is going to kill me.”

“No, it'll be fine,” he said. “We have to make her vomit up the cake, and as long as she does it right away, she'll be fine.”

“I don't know how to do that,” I said, staring at her while her tongue kept working industriously to get every last bit of scrumptious chocolaty poison off her muzzle. “How do you make a dog vomit?”

“Hydrogen peroxide,” said Calm Jay. “You force it down their throat and they puke it up immediately along with everything else in their stomach. I promise you, Rory, it's simple and straightforward, we just need to do it quickly.”

“He's right,” said Alto, looking spooked. “I saw that on the Animal Channel. The chocolate won't kill her, but it could make her pretty sick.”

“Oh God,” I said. “Sara will never forgive me.”

“She doesn't even need to know,” said Jay.

“It seems very harsh on the stomach,” said Marie.

“Not as harsh as chocolate,” I said, hating myself. “Okay, let's go. Thank you, Jay, I'm in your debt, mate.” I was shaking. I grabbed for her leash, which I usually tied around my waist. But
I had taken it off to duel with Nick and had no idea where I'd left it.

“Here,” said Alto, magically materializing with it.

With an anxious sigh, I clipped the leash onto Cody's collar. She seemed slightly subdued already, but that was probably because her stomach was distended from the amount of cake she'd just swallowed. I don't think I could have eaten that much cake in the course of a whole afternoon.

“This way,” said Jay with parental firmness, raising me up and gesturing down the path. He paused, turned around, and addressed the concerned little gathering: “The dog's going to be fine, everyone, please don't worry about it.” Then apologized quietly to Marie and Nick for the interruption of the party—taking the blame on himself, in fact, as he was the one who had put the platter down to eat his own slice. Nick ran over to Cody and gave her a huge hug, which she liked because it allowed her to lick the chocolate frosting off his face.

“Cody, don't be such a pig next time,” he told her. “You get sick if you eat too much cake, didn't Rory ever tell you that?” He kissed her between the eyes and ran back to his mother to collect his pirate uniform. I wanted to die.

We started walking briskly toward Jay's and I realized Squire Alto was walking with us. “It's okay, man,” said Alto, patting my elbow. “Want a cigarette?”

“I am a fuckup,” I said irritably.

“I'm the one who set the tray down,” said Jay.

“But the dog wasn't your responsibility,” I said. “I'm the one who should have noticed and kept her from it. Sara's going to kill me. She's going to say I subconsciously wanted to kill the dog—”

“I'm sure that's nonsense,” said Jay, so indulgently that for a moment I thought, in my distress, that he suspected this himself.

“She can never know about this,” I said. “If you ever meet her, or”—to Alto—“if you ever see her again. She can never know.”

“Whatever you say,” said Jay as he removed one glove and reached into his coat pocket. “It's really not a big deal.”

We came down onto the main paved walkway and then Jay kept walking—across the blacktop, and straight toward the edge of the park, which here was some eight feet higher than the houses abutting it. There were, I saw now, several locked gates rising from the parapet-like park boundary, with subtle footpaths leading to them.

Jay had been softly humming (as usual) Leonard Cohen's “Hallelujah.” “Down here,” he said, and led us toward one such path. He pushed the gate, which opened onto a set of wooden stairs down into the yard of the nearest triple-decker. It was a handsome building, painted darkish green with gold and russet trim . . . a staid Victorian look that suited him. If he hadn't an American accent, I really would have suspected he was a down-on-his-luck baron.

“Nice,” I said.

“Thank you. I just bought it about a year ago.”

“When you sold your thing?” Alto asked.

He nodded. “When I sold my thing.”

“What thing?” I asked. I vaguely remembered something about this from an earlier conversation but was too stressed now to recall the details. “I wouldn't mind selling a thing if it meant I could buy a nice house.”

Jay huffed self-deprecatingly. “I designed a little program Merck
pharmaceuticals bought. Doesn't put me in the one percent, but it bought me a home and a Get Out of Jail Free card from my day job, for a few years anyhow, until I get bored. Here we are. I live in the middle unit. I've got tenants upstairs and down.” He pulled out his keys. The fob on his key chain (really, who but a ruined baron would have a
fob
?) was a little metal figure.

“Is that a dog?” I asked.

“Oh,” said Jay, glancing down absently at it before inserting the key. “Yes. I like dogs. Part of why I enjoy going to the hill every day.”

“Why don't you have one of your own?” Alto asked.

“I lost one recently,” he said. “Still recovering. Nothing in the world says contentment like your dog curled up asleep at your feet. You get incredibly attached.”

“You have no idea,” I said while Alto, who was nicer than I, said, “Sorry for your loss.”

Jay's home, unsurprisingly, was classy and somewhat dark and old-world-ish, with overstuffed leather chairs facing a fireplace and several book-lined walls. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, “over by the fire. I'll collect what I need and be right back.” As he vanished down the hall he called back: “It looks real but it's gas. The switch is on the right if you want to turn it on.”

Alto looked delighted. “Well,
yeah,
” he said, and began to hunt for the switch.

I looked worriedly at Cody. “Oh, you.” I sighed. Her tail thumped the floor, once, languidly. She seemed droopy—I hoped that was from eating so much so fast, and not because she would soon be dead of chocolate toxicity. She rested her chin on my leg hard, pressing down, and looked up at me with those heart-melting
dark eyes, asking me to make her feel better. She was so completely dependent upon me and I felt so completely useless.

About a minute later, as the “fire” was starting to warm, Jay came in with a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide, several towels, and a small stack of
New York Times
under his arm.

“All right, let's set up for triage,” he said. “Alto, if you can spread the newspaper on top of the towel, in front of the fire.”

“Let me get the rug out of the way,” I said, desperate to feel useful. I lifted the heavy leather chair enough to roll back the corner of the very nice, plush, silk Turkish carpet that covered much of this room.

“Thank you,” said Jay. “If you're squeamish you might not want to watch this.”

“I better force myself,” I said, already feeling my gorge rise.

“I think I'll step away,” said Alto.

“There's a bowl of water in the kitchen, can you just bring that in first?” Jay asked, with an encouraging smile. Alto did, then stepped outside for a smoke. God, how I wanted to join him.

I don't see the need to go into the details, but in all fairness, on a purely mechanical level, it was pretty amazing. In went a small bottle's worth of hydrogen peroxide, out came large blobs of chocolate cake, deposited obediently on the newspaper, which Jay deftly covered, lifted, and moved out of sight. He held Cody firmly but gently throughout. She was trembling, and gave him a B-movie starlet's look of despair, but did not try to escape from him. She was resigned to her fate, and even seemed to consider him the boss of her now.

He pulled the dish of water closer to her. “Drink,” he said. “Cody, drink.”

She stared up at him pleadingly.

“Maybe a treat,” he said, considering her. Then, to me, “Hamburger okay?”

“Better than chocolate cake,” I said.

For about a quarter hour, we all sat hunkered down in front of the (pretty realistic-looking) gas fireplace, waiting for Cody to perk up and drink some water. Jay claimed the towels were headed for the trash heap anyhow, and took them—neatly packed—outside to put them straight into the bin. We chatted about this and that—Alto's applying for a job as a waiter at an upscale restaurant (he actually wanted to be a community activist, but was too shy), Jay's contemplated trip to Peru, my upcoming phone call with my agent to sort out the ensuing move to L.A. I was still too freaked out about Cody to get all that excited about talking shop, but I answered questions the other two politely put to me.

Eventually, Cody got interested in the water dish, and drank a lot of it, all at once. We all three quietly cheered her.

“That calls for a celebration,” said Jay. “Is it too early to bring out the scotch?”

“None for me, thanks,” I said. “Those days are behind me.”

“Duly noted,” he said, without judgment.

“I've got a shift starting soon,” said Alto, but I could see he marked it as a rite of passage that he'd just been invited to drink with the grown-ups. In Dublin, when I was his age, I was long past such initiations.

“Well, no fun drinking alone,” said Jay peaceably. “Perhaps another time.”

Within another quarter hour, Cody seemed like a slightly tired version of herself, and was declared entirely fine by Jay. Alto
excused himself to work, and I plied Jay with endless gratitude, which he deflected with a certain noblesse oblige.

“Come by for tea sometime,” he said as I clipped the leash onto Cody's collar at the door. “I'd hate for your only association of my home to be of your wife's dog vomiting.”

We smiled, shook hands, and then because I am an affectionate sort, I gave him a big hug. He really was very tall. I often forgot that because he was usually sitting down, the quiet patriarch on his boulder throne on Peters Hill.

B
ack home, with “Hallelujah” stuck in my head, I found myself pacing the apartment anxiously watching Cody as intently as she usually watched me (ironic, as in her subdued state she seemed nearly indifferent to my existence). I couldn't get a thing done. I was afraid to even shop for dinner lest Cody keel over whilst I was at the co-op.

In the end I did something I would normally never, ever have done.

I sat on the couch and said, “Cody.” She glanced over as if bored. I patted the space right beside me on the couch. Her expression changed immediately, almost human, unmistakable:
You've got to be kidding me. You never let me near the couch.

“Cody,” I repeated, nodding, and patting the cushion more insistently. “C'mon, girl. Up! Up on the couch, Cody.”

She gave me an appraising look, then trotted toward me and sat, politely, her gaze switching between my face and my hand, which was still patting the couch. “Yes! Yes, Cody,” I kept promising. “C'mon up!”

She leapt lightly onto the couch and sat, very upright and proper, and looked at me. There was an awkward moment between us, almost like a first date that wasn't going well.

“You can lie down, Cody,” I said, patting the cushions again. “Lie down.”

She looked down her nose at me as if to say,
What is this
lie down
you are referring to?
But after a moment, she relented, and carefully—staring at me—lowered herself to the sofa cushions, her head near my knee.

“Good girl,” I said.

In response she raised her head, shifted her weight forward slightly, and rested her chin on my knee. That's an adorable feeling even if you don't like dogs, really it is, because it feels like you're being claimed, and who doesn't want to be wanted? So I smiled at her.

She raised herself slightly and wiggled forward so that the whole bottom of her jaw was on my leg.

“Oh, it's like that, is it?” I said, grinning. Without moving her head, she glanced up at me. I smiled down at her. God, was I grateful for this moment. If this moment wasn't happening, I'd be so fucked in the Sara Renault department, I couldn't even imagine it.

Suddenly Cody pushed herself up into a sort of crouch and scoot-slithered her way all the way across my lap. Her tail was off to one knee, her head and forepaws lolling off the other side. It was inverted tarty-dog pose. For a moment neither of us moved. Then, when it was clear I wasn't going to push her off, she looked up at me and wagged her tail tentatively. She thought this was just fantastic. I began to stroke the soft hair on her back, and felt a heavy, peaceful calm descend on me.

I stared into space for an hour, contemplating how much worse things could be right now. I fell into a reverie.

The reverie was interrupted by an unexpected phone call. It shouldn't have been unexpected, but due to the reverie, it was.

“Rory O'Connor,” said the barely pubescent male voice on the other end of the line. “I have Doug Martin for you, please hold.”

“S
O HERE'S WHAT
it means for us,” I said, stirring in exactly the right amount of honey Sara likes because I am an attentive and loving partner that way, even if I do let her dog eat five pounds of chocolate cake.

Sara had come home a little early, remembering (better than I did) about my phone conference with Dougie and the executive producers. I pushed the mug to Sara across the counter. She kicked off her shoes, folded one leg under herself, and settled onto the stool. She cupped her hands around the mug, as that particular smile that comes from a nice cup of tea settled onto her face. “I'm all ears,” she said.

“Are you really? That's tragic. How will you eat?”

She stuck her tongue out at me, then said eagerly, “Go on, then.”

I took a deep breath to calm myself. It was exciting, but scary. I knew from friends of mine—from Dougie himself, in fact—how quickly even a sure thing could fall apart in television.

“So, they ordered a whole season—”

Sara grinned and very quietly, adorably, squealed with glee.

“But that doesn't mean anything really. First we have to make the pilot, then it gets screened along with a bunch of other pilots, and the studio decides which one they want to make, usually
based on all kinds of backroom politics. But if it gets selected, then it gets aired while we're scrambling to shoot the rest of the season.”

“So . . . we're going to Los Angeles?” said Sara.

God, how I'd prayed for her to ask exactly that.

I gave her a hopeful look. “Would you really come with me?”

“As long as your stepdog can come, too.”

I'd been all over Cody since we got home from the misadventure. It should have made Sara suspicious, but in fairness she was too pleased, I think, to look too hard at it. Cody was in the kitchen area with me, which normally I never allowed. At this moment, she nudged her nose to the back of my knee.

“Oh . . .” I pretended to need to mull it over. As if I had a choice in the matter. “I suppose she can come.”

“How was your little picnic today?” Sara asked.

I drew in a sharp breath and then exhaled the tension onto Cody, bending over to give her a very rough head scratch. “It was fun, wasn't it, Cody?” I said. “A gathering is always better when an Irishman's involved, even Henry V knew that, isn't it?” Having calmed myself, I stood upright and looked at Sara. “Marie made a delicious cake and the pirate costumes went over like gangbusters. We looked the business when we were dueling.”

She grinned. “Get out. You dueled with a three-year-old.”

“He's actually four. And actually, he let me win,” I confided.

Her interest, thank God, was sated, and her attention went elsewhere.

“A
CH, SO THAT'S
the last time I'll ever taste your chicken tikka masala,” said Danny poignantly, patting his midriff. “Next time
round, sure your personal chef will be making it for us on a patio looking out over Beverly Hills.”

“My personal chef wouldn't be stupid enough to compete with me when it comes to tikka masala,” I assured him. “I'm Garam-Masala Man. Cheers.” I tapped my seltzer to his pint and we both drank.

I'd made Danny dinner as thanks for help moving all my LPs into storage. Those were nearly the only thing from my old apartment that I kept. I'd sold pretty much all the rest to the bloke who had been my subletter, who conveniently had just started dating my landlord (their sound track being something from Aerosmith). We were nearing the end of several weeks of planning and transition, and as much as I loved Sara, it was a bit of a relief that she was working late and that a mate of mine was over.

The dog, though, was still underfoot. It had only taken a few days for my sentimentality about her to fade. It wasn't her fault; it was Sara's behavior pushing my buttons. You don't want to know how many conversations we had about dealing with Cody while moving to L.A. It would have been the simplest of enterprises without the dog—or even with the dog if Sara had just been willing to trust the airlines not to kill Cody in transit. But she didn't trust them, and so our entire move was revolving around what would work for the dog.

“So when are you out of here?” asked Danny, pushing his empty plate, almost literally licked clean, across the counter to me. I put it in the sink with mine.

“We gave May first as our out date, but we're planning to get on the road April twenty-sixth.” Chuffed, I added, “I have a meeting
in New York on the twenty-eighth with the executive producers, a sort of welcome-to-the-winner's-circle coffee.”

Danny's eyes lit up. “Never! Really? I suppose you'll be treatin' them to coffee, then, now you're a star and all.”

I gave him a wry look. “I'm not getting rich off this pilot, mate. Although to be fair, the executive producer called me five times to say how thrilled he was we were going to be working together—it was great crack the first two or three times, but after that it just started to feel like a commercial being aired too often, not that I'm complaining, mind.”

“Oh, I'd be complaining, same as that,” Danny said, deadpan.

“His assistant sent me a bottle of champagne and flowers for Sara.”

“Ach, so they mean business!” Danny said, impressed. “All that, before they even know if you're going to do more than one episode? Which might not even be seen?”

“Mad, isn't it.”

“But you're moving out there with no surety of the future either, are ye?”

I shrugged. “Sara and I thought, you know, this place is too small for a couple, but otherwise living together isn't as bad as we thought—”

“—except for the dog—”

“Except for the dog, but we're both getting better about that. We're mad for each other, Danny, we want to live together for real—”

“Ach, that's great, big man.”

“So it means we need to move anyhow, so why not move to the
place where it all happens?” I was oversimplifying, it's true. We didn't really need to move all the way to Los Angeles as yet, but the idea seemed kind of exotic. Sara was game for adventure, and I loved her for that.

Danny shook his head in wonder. “Wee Sara suggested you move in with her to fool the U.S. government. I think you're the one got fooled, mate. All you did was kiss her, and now look.”

“I'm a very lucky bloke,” I said reverentially. “Did I tell you we're driving cross-country?”

Again his eyes got big. “Are you
mad
? Not in the wee MINI
Cooper
? With the
dog
?”

“Well, we're shipping some stuff, it doesn't all have to fit in the MINI with us. We're getting a furnished flat to start with, and then if the series is picked up, we'll look for something to really call home. And if it doesn't, well, then maybe we'll just hop back in the car and drive back. This way we'll get to see America, plus we'll have a car when we get out there.”

“That'll be a grand adventure, then. And where will you go along the way, so? Mount Rushmore?”

“Too far north.”

“Texas? You'll go through Texas, surely?”

I nodded.

Danny looked delighted for me—and probably jealous.

“Always wanted to see Texas. And Graceland?” His eyes were wide. “I've always had a yen to see it.”

“Obviously Graceland,” I said.

“And the Grand Canyon?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“You know, all of County Donegal would fit
inside
the Grand Canyon.”

“Well, maybe they should dump it in, waste of fuckin' space in Ireland.” I grinned.

Danny shook his head, almost tearing up. “Always wanted to see the Grand Canyon,” he said. “Where else? Do you know your route yet?”

I rolled my eyes. “Her Ladyship has planned out the
entire
trip. I'll show you.” I picked up a wire-bound notebook from the coffee table and opened it to a random page and held it out to Danny.

It took him a moment to digest the enormity of Sara's project. “Show don't tell” is the actor's mantra, so here's an example. The page I'd opened to was titled “ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI” and read:

THIS MORNING, DEPARTING FROM:
Columbus, OH (sunrise 6:20 am)

DRIVING FOR:
9 hours including
all
stops (418 miles)

EXERCISE:
Waggin' Tails Bark Park, 10450 E. 63rd St, Lawrence, IN 46236

LUNCH STOP:
Indianapolis, North College Ave. area (Yats?)

AFTERNOON EXERCISE:
Silverlake Park Nature Trail, Highland IL 62249

ST. LOUIS:
2199 FOREST AVE (sunset 8 pm, sunrise 6 am)

TOMORROW, DEPARTING TO:
TULSA, OK (6 hours, 380 miles)

DETAILS: We'll be staying with Candace and Michael, they have a Jack Russell named Dixie and a fenced yard for Cody, plus they have an urban farm with chickens, so we can have fresh eggs for breakfast. There's an Italian restaurant down the block and the St. Louis Arch is 6.9 miles away if we want to go in the morning before we head to Tulsa.

Danny pursed his lips, humbled and awed.

“The whole thing's like this,” I said, and added, because I couldn't help myself: “Because of the dog.”

Any further conversation on that topic was stifled by the sound of the outer door opening. The dog leapt toward the door, her tail wagging madly, her body almost hopping. Could it be . . . might it be . . . possibly? Maybe? Yes! Sara was home! How
astounding
!

As if she hadn't spent a perfectly companionable evening with myself and Danny, Cody began to fling herself in anticlockwise circles, making a stifled whining noise as if barely restraining herself from bursting into song, as if she'd been abandoned for months and was desperate for human contact.

“Hello, sweetie,” Sara hummed to her, the moment she was in the door. She knelt down to be eye level with the dog, who was desperately relieved Sara had entered. “Hello hello hello, my darling.” Of course, a brief tarty-dog pose as Sara stood again, and then much pushing of the dog's nose against Sara's legs as if Cody was trying to clear the smell of Irish Males out of her olfactory system.

“Hi, love,” Sara said to me once Cody had been mollified. “Danny! Hello there!” She put her bag on the counter, grinned at him, and gave him a big hug. Somewhat shyly, he reciprocated.

Then, and only then, did I get a little love. She moved around the counter into the kitchen area, and held her arms open a moment, gazing at me, then stepped closer and wrapped them around me. That felt, as always, magic. I hugged her back and decided that it really wasn't such a big deal that she was organizing all the spontaneity out of our entire cross-country adventure.

“How are you, Sara?” asked Danny.

“Oh, you know, we're sort of all over the place here,” she said, smiling. “Thanks for helping Rory out today.”