Yankee Doodle Dixie (21 page)

Issie and Sarah both laugh. “No,” they say at the same time.

“Well, Gracie didn’t want to either.” The
Willingham Gazette
found a new subscriber the day I moved to town. Spreading out newspaper in every corner of our apartment was the least I could do for the poor old thing. “Our new dog has to use the backyard at our new house. That’s all there is to it.”

All kinds of adorable faces beckon us to take them home. I imagine each one saying, “Pick me, please. Oh pretty please. I’ll make you happy. I’ll be the loyal one in your life if you’ll just give me a chance.” Issie and Sarah stop at every cage claiming the one inside is the one they want.

About halfway down the second aisle, in the corner of one of the cages, is a smaller cream-colored, shaggy dog with floppy ears and big black eyes. She can’t weigh more than twelve pounds. Although she doesn’t come up to us like the others have, for some reason just the sight of her, all shaggy and overgrown, makes me swoon.

“Is she a puppy?” I ask the lady.

“Nope. It’s full grown.”

“Any idea what kind she is?” Her fur is pitifully misshaped but I could give her a good clip and she’d look like a beauty.

“Let’s see, looks like a terrier mix to me,” the shelter worker says. “I can tell by her curly tale.”

“Can we see her? Or is she a him?” I ask.

“Let’s see here.” The woman checks a card fastened to the cage. “It’s a him.”

“Oh, I don’t know about a him,” I say, disappointed. “I’ve never had a boy dog.”

“I would like a boy dog, actually,” Sarah says. “He could be my little brother.” When I see the longing in her sapphire eyes I reconsider. I imagine this guilt thing, as a single mother, won’t ever change.

“Okay, we can look at him,” I say.

The woman opens the cage, attaches a leash to the little dog’s collar and pulls on him. He slides on all fours out of the cage and once outside, cowers.

“Ohh, he’s so scared.” I bend down on my knees and my daughters do the same.

“Come here, baby,” I say.

“Come here, baby,” Issie says.

“All you do is copy everybody,” Sarah tells her. “Copycat.”

I press my lips together and toss Sarah a stern gaze. “Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, barely audible.

“Sorry who for what?”

“I’m sorry, Issie, for saying ‘you copy.’” If her tone dictated the amount of sincerity in her heart, it’s not much of an apology. I suppose it will have to do for now.

We all reach out our hands to the little dog. “Can we play with you?” I say.

After several seconds the little pooch edges closer, finally close enough for a little pat on the head. He licks my hand.

“He must have been abused. You can tell by the way he cowers,” the officer says.

“That is terrible. Who in the world could have hurt this little man?” I pick him up and place him in my lap, kissing the top of his head.

Sarah says, “Can I hold him?”

“Sure, be very gentle,” I say, and hand him over.

“I want to hold him,” Issie says, and strains to pick up the little guy. He wriggles away from Sarah’s lap. Undaunted, she goes after him again. He never snaps and seems not to mind being chased.

“I was holding him,” Sarah says, picking him back up.

“It’s still Sarah’s turn, Issie. Just wait another minute and then you can hold him, too,” I tell her.

“Does he have a name?” I ask the lady.

“Nope, we don’t give them names, only numbers. It would make it too hard when we have to…”

With eyes bulging and lips pursed, I leer at her in a desperate attempt to stop her from saying another word.

She reads me loud and clear. Instead of finishing her sentence, though, the officer goes mute. I can tell by the look in her eyes that she’s scared to say another word.

After pondering his fate for only a moment I ask, “Is he close?”

She nods her head up and down, slightly pursing her lips.

That’s all I need to hear. “What do you think, girls? Should we take him home? It might be nice to have a boy around the house.”

An hour later, after waiting for the microchip to be inserted into our new addition’s shoulder blade, the adoption papers are signed and I’ve written out a check for sixty-five dollars. It ensures he’s been neutered, flea-dipped, dewormed, and vaccinated.

Once we’re in the car, the little shy dog who’d cowered away from us jumps back and forth between the seats as if he’s finally been emancipated. His little back legs dig into my left thigh, as his tail spins faster than a whirlybird, and he peers out the driver’s side window as if to bid adieu. Once he finally tires from darting all around the car, he curls up on my lap and licks my elbow. “What should we name him?” I ask the girls, while stroking the top of his head.

“How about Cotton?” Sarah says.

“Cotton, huh? I like that.” I really don’t, but I have to tread lightly. “Sometimes I think it’s nice to name a dog after a person. After someone you love or admire. Take Gracie, for instance. She was named after the most elegant woman who ever lived. Princess Grace Kelly was not only a movie star, but a classically beautiful, sophisticated woman and princess.”

“How did she get to be a princess?” Sarah wants to know. Through the rearview mirror, I can see her eyes growing larger.

“She married a prince, of course. The Prince of Monaco. She was my favorite movie star; I used to daydream that I was her. I would fantasize that I had blond hair and blue eyes and wore her elegant clothes and diamonds. Not to mention kissing all those gorgeous men in the movies.” This elicited a few chuckles from the girls. “Naming Gracie after her was quite apropos.”

Issie says, “I think we should name him after Roberta.”

“No Issie, Roberta is a girl’s name and we have a boy dog,” Sarah says. I can see her shake her head through my rearview mirror, like her little sister is the dumbest person on earth.

“Actually girls,” I say, “there are plenty of people out there with androgynous names. Just look at all the Jordans or the Taylors of the world. Both boys and girls have that name. Alex, Sandy, Aubrey, Madison—there are a million of them.” Suddenly the most famous of all androgynous names pops in my mind. “I forgot about Alice Cooper, he’s the king of all them all!”

“Who’s Alice Cooper?” Sarah asks.

“A rock star from the seventies. He had a song called ‘School’s Out’ and on our last day at Jameson School, in our senior year, Mary Jule, Alice, Virgy, and I rigged up a sound system and blasted it all throughout the school. You should have seen us dancing in the halls in our Alice Cooper tight pants with black stars painted around our eyes. If we had done that any other day, we would have all been expelled.”

“You were crazy, Mommy,” Sarah says.

The more I think about naming this little dog Roberta, the better it sounds. “In the olden days people even called their boys Meredith,” I tell them. “My friend Karen Perrin had an uncle Meredith. He was the nicest man, always taking the time to talk with us and help Karen with her math homework. If his mother could name him Meredith, why can’t we call this precious dog Roberta?” The little man peers up at me with longing. “We can start a new trend. Maybe once we call him Roberta, other people will start naming their sons Roberta.”

I look back at Sarah and she’s staring out the window pondering that thought. By now, she’s used to the whims of her wacky mommy.

All this talk of Roberta’s name makes me miss my dear friend. If someone had told me the day I first stepped foot in Vermont that my little five-foot-tall, roly-poly housekeeper who wore plaid skirts with flowery tops would become my best friend I would have highly doubted it. Even better, she’s the type of person who would get a huge kick out of having a dog named after her, girl
or
boy. I think I’ll call her when I get home and tell her.

Sarah looks over at the mutt and says, “Come here, Roberta.” Giving her a slight cock of the head, he prances to her lap and nestles into a spot, resting his head on the door’s armrest. Apparently it’s decided. Roberta it is.

Chapter Nine

When I flip on the radio, after I get back in the car from dropping off Issie at school, “Fire and Rain” pours out of the speakers. It’s so vivid—almost like James Taylor is on the morning show in the control room, singing directly into the mic. I can hear a guitar but the other instruments are missing, the ones that give the song its full rich sound. FM 99 is not known for playing acoustic versions of songs (Edward would never allow a song to be played that hadn’t originally reached the top ten on the Adult Contemporary Billboard chart), but even still, I’d swear it was James himself.

“Thought I’d see you one more time again. Nah, nah, nah.” After the music fades, there’s clapping.
Control room
clapping! I nearly hit another mother exiting the preschool parking lot.

“All right, all right.
JT.
That was awesome,” Johnny says. “It’s great to have you back.”

“Thank you. Glad to be here.” That’s his voice. I’d know it anywhere. It really is James Taylor!

“You’re in concert tonight at Mud Island,” Johnny says.

“That’s right,” says JT.

Okay, what in god’s name is going on? Why am I the last to know that Sweet Baby James himself is at FM 99 today—only a few feet away from my office? It’s only been two weeks since Liam White was in the studio and now we have an even bigger star. I truly am going to kill Johnny Dial this time. I look down at my outfit and consider turning back around and heading home. This dress has been hanging in my closet for five years. I’d have thrown it away a long time ago but it’s one of those outfits that can pass in a pinch, when everything else is dirty. It’s the kind that you’d never wear to something special, though—and this is better than something special. One glance at the clock tells me I better keep driving forward and accept the fact that I’m going to meet
the
James Taylor looking like I just left the Dress Barn.

“You’ve played Memphis what, six or seven times, and every single time I see you, you seem to get better,” Johnny says. “Your voice is smoother now than it was the first time I saw you back in 1970, I think it was.”

“The
Sweet Baby James
tour.”

“That’s it. One of the best shows I’ve ever seen at the Mid-South Coliseum. I still remember you came out on the stage wearing a flannel shirt, sat down on a stool and opened the show with ‘Sweet Baby James.’”

JT laughs, and it’s unmistakable.

I remember that shirt! I was there. One of my very first concerts. I fumble through my purse and punch in the numbers to Alice’s cell. When the answering machine comes on I’m practically squealing. “Turn on FM 99. JT is in the control room talking about the Sweet Baby James concert at the coliseum when that man in the crowd screamed out ‘Walking Down a Country Road.’ Remember that, Alice? Oh my gosh. I have the coolest job in the world.” I push the end button and throw the phone back in my purse.

What woman isn’t obsessed with James Taylor? Actually, with Alice and me, it’s not as much of an obsession as it is an infatuation. We’re enthralled with his love life. I mean, what man writes the kind of lyrics he does without the kind of magnetism, charm, and seduction that drives a woman crazy? Carly Simon was so lucky.

“I’ll tell you what I wish I still had,” Johnny says. “That poster that came inside the album. It hung on my bedroom wall with thumbtacks in the corners for years.”

“I’ve had many people tell me that.”

I’m weaving in and out of the lanes, speeding down Union Avenue in rush-hour traffic, praying with every fiber of my being that I make it before he leaves. If I don’t get to meet him, maybe I’ll bump into him on the way out. Or at the very least catch a glimpse of him from ten feet away.

When I finally pull up to the station, by the grace of God, he’s still talking to Johnny. I’m late, my normal five to ten, so I hightail it up to my office, not even pausing to wave to Jane on my way in. Through the window in front of the control room I can see the back of JT’s head. He’s wearing his signature newsboy cap! I am literally just five feet away from the one and only James Taylor.

When the phone starts ringing, I reach down to grab it, never taking my gaze off the window across the hall from my office. I can see James scratching his neck. Now he’s putting a coffee cup to his lips. Now he’s leaning down and picking up his guitar. He’s about to play another song. I
must
think of an excuse to get inside that control room!

“Hello,” I say into the phone, after it rings only once. My giddiness is hard to conceal.

“Is this FM 99?” a man asks, puzzled.

“Oh. Yes it is. I’m sorry, I was distracted. May I help you, please?”

“Sure. This is Steve Conley. I’m the stage manager on James Taylor’s crew. We’re down here at Mud Island loading in his gear and our tour itinerary says he’s not due into Memphis until four o’clock. We’re all a little confused down here and I can’t get JT’s road manager on the phone. Do you know if he’s by himself or if he has someone with him?”

“Hold on a second, let me check.” This is it! My great excuse to mosey into the control room.

“Actually, it looks like…,” I’m craning my neck across the hall to survey the inside of the control room as best as I can, “he’s alone. But why don’t I get your phone number and give Mr. Taylor a message to call you as soon as he comes off the air?”

“That would be great.”

I jot down the information and kiss the pink note in my hand. With my purse hanging over my shoulder I tear down the hall to the ladies’ room. Because I’m nervous, when I reach for my blush compact it slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor. Just my luck. Now it’s in tiny pieces all over the black tile. With no other choice, I sweep up the peach tinted bits with the enclosed brush and use it anyway. This should teach me to come to work without taking the time to fix my makeup and style my hair. At the moment my hair’s in a ponytail, but I quickly tear out the rubber band and fluff it in the mirror. Once I finish brushing on my mascara I notice brownish black dots below my eyebrows. Ripping out a paper towel from the holder I hurriedly dampen it in the sink and wipe the residual fluid from my eyes. When I take one last look at myself in the mirror, it occurs to me I look like Goodwill Strawberry Shortcake, minus the striped leggings.