pleated pants, with a cockapoo in his lap.
I caught him looking at me and he glanced quickly away. We were the only two in the waiting roomâaside from an aquarium and a large cage of four kittens. I looked up at the receptionistâs desk to see if I could catch her eye, get an update, but she was on the phone.
Then Peter asked, âCan I help you with something? Are you okay?â
âWhat?â I said.
âI donât mean to pry or anything. You just look like youâve been through a lot today.â
I considered for the first time what I must look likeâwindblown, disheveled, bloody. âOh, yes, itâs been a strange day.â
âAnd is your pet in surgery?â
âYes, the dogâs in surgery, but heâs not my dog,â I said.
âOh.â
âI hit the dog. Iâm just waiting for the owners to show up. Technically, Iâm the bad guy, I guess.â
âBut you brought the dog in ⦠thatâs noble, and you stayed.â And this struck me as a very noble thing to say. He smiled then and it was this glorious smile that revealed dimples just under the mouth.
âAt least Iâll have something new to talk about in therapy.â I blurted this out. I was still partially in the fog, I think. I already knew that the dog would have to represent my dead mother somehow, and that this would spur a lot of discussion.
âAre you always looking for new material for your therapist?â he asked.
âI try to be entertaining. Itâs the least I can do.â
He said jokingly, âI prefer to bury my problems. Polish the ulcer.â
âThatâs very Hemingway of you,â I said.
âVery big-game hunter,â he said.
âVery running with the bulls in Pamplona.â
And then the woman behind the desk called out, âLillipoo Stevens?â
He looked at the receptionist. âComing!â he said, and then he turned to me. âItâs my motherâs dog,â he said apologetically.
âSure it is,â I said.
And then he asked me out for a drink.
âAh, to polish the ulcer?â I asked. âYou know, you shouldnât ask out women who are covered in blood. I might be a murderer, depending how things go â¦â
âWell, Iâve never gone on a date with a murderer before â¦â
And this was old-fashioned. A date being called a date. âIâll go but only if you bring Lillipoo,â I said.
I gave him my number, which entailed fumbling through my pocketbook for a pen and a receipt for something other than Rolaids or tamponsâa humiliating little ritual. And then he said sincerely, âI hope it all goes okay in there.â
âThanks,â I said.
He walked away then, Lillipoo tucked under his arm, her swishy tail swishing.
Peter and I dated for a year before we moved in togetherâand Ripken joined us. The surgery had been expensive. The ownersâwhom I never did meet but who still exist in my mind with their matching baseball hatsâhad inherited the dog from an elderly aunt whoâd gone into assisted living, and theyâd been letting him roam because he was flatulent. They didnât want to pay for the surgery and didnât really want him back. So I inherited Ripkenâmy very own old flatulent gym teacher, my first dogâminus one leg.
Peter and I got engaged a year after that, then got married. Everything was so perfectly doled out, like an automated cat-food dispenser. Instead of loving gazes, he glanced at me lovingly. There was a lazy satisfaction to it allâsomething that we could afford because of Peterâsoverriding confidence. Heâd been raised by two exceptionally confident people, the kind who are usually brought down a peg or two by statistical probabilityâyou can only live so long without encountering tragedy. And yet his parents avoided tragedyâGail and Hal Stevens were exempt. Theyâd
Christopher Knight, Alan Butler