Patricia Gaffney Read Free Page B

him a dog-or-me ultimatum.
    “Dash, sweetheart,” he said, “you’re upset. We’ll let the dog sleep here with Hobbes tonight, and tomorrow we’ll find it a good home. A really good home. Now come to bed.” Then he leered at me. Andrew Bateman, who is not a leerer, leered at me, I can only assume because my white cotton brassiere under the blouse I’d never rebuttoned had inflamed him.
    “Maybe when pigs fly!”
    The rest is a blur. I said some more regrettable things, then left. That felt great—I loved the whole flouncing-out part, finding my purse, wrapping the puppy in a chenille throw, hauling open the front door and slamming it behind me.
    Andrew immediately opened it and called out from the porch, “Have you completely lost your mind?”
    If I had, it’s still missing. None of the rationalizations I’ve come up with to explain what I did that night really work. It seemed like a good idea at the time. (But so did proclaiming myself “Dash” at age thirteen, because I despised “Dot,” short for Dorothy.) The puppy—I think if I went to a shrink he might say, or she might say, taking the puppy out from under my shirt to save its life was like a ritual birth. In the last six months I’ve lost my mother, and I’ve virtually lost my daughter. Andrew was trying to rip away my last chance to have something belong to me.
    That’s all I could come up with as I sped down I-66 at midnight, caught between competing urges to keep driving forever and turn around and go home, where I supposedly belong. It beat Andrew’s explanation, at least, made me sound more thoughtful and complicated than irresponsible and idiotic.
    But it’s just as likely his diagnosis is correct and I’ve simply lost my mind—that’s still better than perimenopause. Although I don’t suppose they’re mutually exclusive.
     

    two

    M y cell phone rings as I’m merging into traffic on I-66. Overnight the snow turned to rain, which is good, but traffic’s still crazy and it’s not even rush hour anymore.
    “Dash?” an unfamiliar male voice says. “This is Mike Warner.” I don’t know anyone named Mike Warner. No, wait—it comes to me just as he says, “Barbara’s husband?”
    “Oh, hi, Mike. How’s—oh, no, is everything—”
    “We just had a baby.”
    “Oh my God!”
    Mike, whom I’ve never met, has a raw, breaky voice, as if he’s been yelling. “Yep, a boy.”
    “Oh my God! Congratulations!”
    “Thanks. Thanks. Um, so Barb asked me to call and tell you she can’t”—Mike starts laughing—“she can’t come in today for the shoot.”
    “I guess not!” I join him; we both have a good laugh, although his is more sincere than mine. My mind is skipping ahead—who am I going to get to help me at this late hour? My phone book’s in the office and I’ve only got a few numbers on this cell.
    “She went into labor yesterday about four in the afternoon and she told me to call you last night, but I forgot. So it’s my fault this is such short notice.” He’s trying to sound repentant, but he’s too tired and too excited to pull it off.
    “No problem, don’t worry about it. This is so great! Give Barb a big hug and a kiss for me. And the baby! What are you naming him?”
    “Clive Otis.”
    “Oh!” That’s all I can think of to say to that.
    As soon as Mike hangs up, I call my best photographer friend in Washington, who thank God is in her studio, I don’t get her answering machine. “Elaine! My regular assistant just gave birth, and I’ve got a studio shoot at one o’clock this afternoon!” Elaine shrieks in sympathy, and we go down the list. Neither of us has a full-time assistant, but we often use the same freelancers. She gives me two numbers and wishes me luck. “If you strike out with them, I know of one more,” she says, “but I can’t say how good she’d be—”
    “Can she hold a light meter?”
    “Well, she’s had a year of photography school, so she must know something.