When Carol’s son grew up and went away to college and later married and had children and they, her grandchildren, grew up and went away too, Carol found herself spending time thinking about being old.
She briefly succumbed to trying new potions and creams and even dipped into the dermatological world of the quick fix—line erasing and crevice filling shots —that wasn’t. Finally, she settled begrudgingly into self-acceptance. She cut her hair short and went for long walks. She would have liked to have Dog with her, but Dan—her ex who had left her for his secretary, Ivy Shaw—had taken Dog when he moved out. Carol had been too exhausted at the time to protest and too happy to be Danless. Later, after Ivy Shaw ditched him, Dan told Carol he wanted to come back. As if they’d never been divorced, as if her front door had a turnstile. She laughed in his face over the phone, then had a moment thinking about Dog.
“I want Dog back,” she said. “I want to take him on my walks.”
“No can do,” Dan said.
“Dog belongs to me, too. You could be nice. At least share him.”
“Not happening.”
“You’re a piece of shit,” she said and hung up.
Then Dog died. Probably sick and tired of Dan. Carol mourned Dog more than she’d ever mourned her dead parents, her marriage, her lost youth, or her son who rarely called. She lay on her couch longing to scratch Dog’s velvety ears until she had to get up and go to work.
She drove her lima bean car—small, green, and cheap because no one wanted it—from her apartment in Santa Monica to downtown where she worked as head designer for a wedding gown company. Dresses with yards of tulle and lace and beads, or sleek satin slips smooth to the touch; Carol was proud of her ability, though she often wondered why anyone bothered anymore with garments destined for thrift stores or dumpsters. She’d worn a brown ditzy print dress for her own wedding, which she’d thought as bohemian, though it was really just brown. She should have known anyone married in a brown dress was headed for divorce.
Carol had been waiting for her son to leave his wife, Polly, a woman of staggering laziness and delusional fears that sent her children running for their lives. Carol knew it was horrible to wish for the demise of her son’s marriage until she discovered she wasn’t the only one. There were plenty of mothers of sons who felt the same, and Carol hoped hers might still have a chance for true happiness. Like any mother, it was all she wanted.
A co-worker set Carol up on a date with his friend’s cousin’s brother who called Carol right away and they talked for nearly an hour. Which was more out-of-the-workplace conversation than she’d had for a long time. Carol’s last date was two years ago; Gil with a yellow snap-front shirt and a turquoise truck. This one was far less colorful. His name was Ted, but she could call him Teddy, which she didn’t because Teddy was a bear or Roosevelt or Kennedy, and she just couldn’t. Ted arrived at her door at six o’clock. He had a full beard and looked like a bear in a gray wool shirt. She had decided to keep an open mind, so she smiled and opened the door wider. Ted with his beard and wool shirt sat on the sofa.
He talked. About himself. In the third person. “Ole’ Teddy knows what’s up.” Whatever that was. They had sex on the sofa. Because Carol didn’t want to go anywhere with him. And, because she didn’t know why. He kept his shirt on.
“This isn’t going to work out,” she said. The shirt was way too scratchy on her skin, and now there was a strong possibly she never wanted to have sex ever again. She gave Ted a glass of water on his way out the door. Carol wasn’t sure how she felt about herself just then, so she poured a finger of whiskey and sat on her bed with a faux furry coverlet over her bare feet.
Her son called the next day and she was so surprised she fumbled with the phone like it was a football before answering.
“Polly and I have split up,” he said.
“Oh?”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“These things happen.”
“You never liked her, did you?” he said.
“There was a time.” Though she couldn’t remember when.
“She never liked you, either.”
That makes perfect sense, she thought, glancing at the wagging tail of the cat clock on the yellow kitchen wall.
“I’m seeing Sally Mayer,” he said. “We were at college together.”
Sally, Polly. Apparently her son favored women with little girl names found in a primary reader.
“How nice,” Carol said, thinking she’d wear her blue sweater today. The navy, not the royal. She’d never liked royal blue. She should donate it, then remembered a picture of a mountain of trashed clothes in India, or Haiti, or somewhere, and she didn’t want to contribute to it.
She sent the sweater to her cousin in red state Mississippi where they could use some more blue. Not that Carol was political; not since she’d hung a homemade “Anita Hill Lives” sign in her office way back when and no one cared. She realized then she was useless at rabble rousing.
Her cousin sent the sweater back. She said it was too blue. We never got along and I was itching for a fight and called her.
“You spelled my name wrong on the package and on your note,” she said.
“T e r r y?” I said.
“T e r i.”
“I didn’t know you changed it.” And, who the fuck cares, I thought. “And, who the fuck cares?” I said.
“Obviously, not you.”
“I sent you a perfectly good sweater.”
“Used and blue. I hate blue.”
“Worn once, and no one hates blue.”
“I like yellows and greens.”
“I’ll remember for the next time I never send you anything.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Her cousin died the following summer after mistakenly locking herself in the walk-in freezer at the local co-op where she worked. They found her the following morning wearing a green flowered sundress and frozen stiff as a stick. Maybe if she’d worn the blue sweater she might have survived.
Carol called her Aunt Milly, Terry/Teri’s mother, to express her condolences, though she what she felt was indifference.
“Do you like blue?” Carol asked.
“Everyone likes blue,” Milly said.
“I have a nice royal blue sweater, worn once. I would be happy to send it to you. Good for chilly nights in Nebraska.”
“That’s the sweetest thing. Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.”
Carol thought she’d just won her ticket to heaven. Though as a little kid, she’d stopped believing in anything close to God or heaven when her Sunday school teacher, who had a harelip and was usually drunk, talked none stop about murder and rape. When she asked her mother what rape meant, her mother pulled her from the school and she never had to think about God or heaven again. She felt blessed.
She wrapped up the blue sweater and sent it to Aunt Milly along with a box of cherry filled chocolates. Because everyone likes cherry filled chocolates, except maybe Terry/Teri currently defrosting in her grave. Milly was thrilled with the gift.
Carol enjoyed giving small gifts whenever she could. It was early November, just barely fall in Los Angeles after another last gasp of hot weather. She ordered a wool sweater for her son on the east coast. Carol didn’t think she needed a holiday to send a present. A month later, she still hadn’t heard from him. Maybe he hated the sweater. Or her. Maybe he was too busy divorcing Polly and wooing Sally what’s-her-name. Carol ordered a sweater for herself; a pale honey-colored cardigan. She paired it with gray slacks and her favorite suede clogs.
Troy, an expert pattern maker, who worked with Carol, complimented her on how the honey color brought out her brown eyes.
“You have golden specks in your eyes,” he said. “Very nice.”
This was the kind of thing only a self-assured gay man could say to an older woman who was also his boss. Troy noticed every detail, which made him excellent at his job, and also brought her a daily dose of cheer. Troy was attentive. Occasionally, they would go out for a drink after work. He always chose the place and it was always perfect. Truth be told, Carol was a little in love with Troy. And, fool’s game though it was, she spent too much time thinking she could change him; as if an older divorced woman with a sketchy and unsatisfactory sexual record would be capable of such a thing.
She sat next to Troy at the bar at El Coyote on Beverly Blvd drinking Cadillac margaritas. In business since 1931, El Coyote was the closest thing to historic in a city bent on renewal; where old plastic was often replaced with new plastic. Troy leaned in close. They were both well aware how her honey sweater and his tan jacket coordinated flawlessly.
“I love bars,” she said. “Although I don’t drink that much.”
“Bars are about romance and possibilities,” Troy said.
“I never thought of it like that.” Maybe he was flirting just a bit? Stop it. He’s gay. And, he also had Boris, a muscle man he met at Muscle Beach in Santa Monica.
“Does Boris like bars, too?” I asked.
“Not a bit, he doesn’t drink at all. Boring Boris, but so hot.”
Carol had a moment contemplating gay sex. Her friend Leona was a lesbian, though she told Carol she hadn’t always known she was gay and she’d once been engaged to a man, but couldn’t go through with it. She’s been with Peggy now for fifteen years and they had a great life surrounded by a lot of supportive friends. Carol was jealous of the way they all cooked dinners together and went hiking and traveled. She didn’t have friends like that, and Leona never invited Carol along.
“Did you know that Jack Lalaine, the famous body builder, used to train at Muscle Beach?” Troy asked.
Body builders and their beaches were foreign to Carol. And thinking about Leona and how everyone who was gay was having a much better time than she was, which made her feel left out and depressed. Fortunately, only slightly depressed, more just blue. Navy, not royal. Then Dan called. She hadn’t heard from him for four months and thought maybe Ivy Shaw had returned. Not so.
“I have a new dog, Big Black, to replace Dog,” he said. “He’s five years old.”
“There’s no replacing Dog with another dog.” And what with the way she felt about not being gay and left out, and now being reminded of sweet, dead Dog, tears ran down her face. Silent tears. Because she wouldn’t give Dan the satisfaction of her crying. Because she hated Dan and never should have married him, except then she wouldn’t have her son, who she loves dearly even if he was wishy-washy about her.
“I rescued Big Black,” Dan said.
Carol knew Dan wasn’t capable of rescuing anyone or anything. “How long was he there?”
“Who? Where?”
“The shelter, how long was Big Black in the shelter?”
“A year.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“They’ll let anyone take a leftover dog. Even you.”
“You just think I’m not good at anything, don’t you?”
“You’re right about that.”
Dan hung up on her and she strangely admired him for it. He was such a zero, but maybe he could keep Black Dog alive. If so, it would be the single accomplishment of his life. She dialed her son’s number. Even if he hated the sweater and her, she still wanted to talk to him. He was her closest living relative. Maybe she should tell him where she kept her will—in the freezer in case of fire—along with her prepaid order for cremation. Though she wasn’t sick and had no immediate plans of dying. Carol liked things tidy.
He answered on the fourth ring. She always answered by the second ring. Why keep people waiting? It wasn’t like she, or her son, lived in a palace and couldn’t get to the phone. Besides, cell phones basically followed you around the house, which made her think again of Dog who used to follow her everywhere and how much she missed him. If stupid Dan could rescue a dog, she could rescue a pack.
“Oh, hi,” her son said.
“How’s the sweater, does it fit?”
“The sweater, yeah, gray, charcoal gray, nice. Yes, it fits.”
She waited for a thank you. What an ass she was, hoping for a scrap of decency. It was her own fault. She raised him, she made the mistakes, whatever they were, that turned him into a thankless person she hardly recognized. She poured herself a diet coke, added some grenadine, and sat on the sofa with the phone at her ear. He talked about Sally, apparently the new true love of his life.
“She’s a technician at a clinic where they do mammograms,” he said.
Holy crap. This was information Carol could have done without; envisioning the lineup of breasts tortured by the tech’s hands squishing giant orbs into submission.
“You know, they save lives,” he said.
“Yes, I do know that.” What the fuck, did he think she lived in a cave? Did he not understand she was a woman who had breasts? Okay, sons might not like to think of their mother’s breasts, but Goddamn. Every woman knows her breasts could up and kill her one day, and Carol wasn’t stupid, she got checked regularly and so far so good. Fortunately, she lived across the country from Sally the-mammo-tech and there wasn’t a chance of running into her. Carol changed the subject.
“I’m thinking of getting another dog,” she said. Though she hadn’t really until that moment.
“Aren’t you too old for a new dog?”
“I go to work every day. Still walking and talking here.”
“Yeah, well, but a dog could trip you with the leash or something, you could fall and hit your head.”
Sounded like wishful thinking to Carol. Her son had never walked a dog a day in his life. “Are you on drugs? What’s the matter with you?”
“Just concerned about you.”
“Oh, sure.” Carol thought about the sweater he still hadn’t mentioned, and how in the future she could buy sweaters for her new dog instead of her son. She pictured a whole wardrobe of colorful pet clothes and how people would stop to admire her taste in dog apparel.
“Sorry, I have to go.” She hung up, then located the nearest animal shelter and made an appointment.
She would find the best dog in the whole world, and he would be dressed to the hilt in dashing doggie sweaters all winter long, and he would come to work with her, maybe even to drinks with Troy. Troy liked dogs. And she would introduce her new dog to Leona too, and invite her to dinner and Leona would be so enamored with Carol’s new dog and his sweaters, she would invite Carol and the dog to go hiking with her and her friends. Carol felt a surge of joy and relief. Finally, her life would fill up in new and unexpected ways.
She completed the online form for adoption. On paper, she wasn’t the ideal candidate: older woman living alone who went to work every day. Still, she reasoned there were plenty of needy dogs. She dressed in jeans and rugged shoes for her interview, thinking she looked like someone capable of taking a dog for long walks. The no-kill shelter was festooned with pictures of dogs and cats and their adoptive owners. The dogs all looked like they were smiling, the cats like they were reserving judgement.
“Fostering might be a good start,” the attendant said. “A way to learn just which dog might be the right one for you.”
Carol liked the idea. Two weeks, no obligation, she readily agreed, and a week later she picked up a mixed breed with short legs and big ears named Brute. She would have to change his name; she’d sound insane calling, here Brute, come Brute. Maybe Brutus. Or something altogether different. But she was getting ahead of herself. She took Brute home where he chewed the leg of a kitchen chair in half an hour. He’s just nervous, she thought. She gave him dinner and showed him his new pouf bed. He ate his food, then the pouf. Scraps of fabric and stuffing filled her living room. She threw herself the sofa and cried.
It wasn’t until the beginning of Brute’s second week that he started to calm down. She bought another bed, praised him with treats, and tickled his ears until he looked at her like she might be the one. Carol wasn’t sure. Though she was all in on fostering. So much so that she thought parents of newborns should be able to do the same: take the baby home for a while, see how it goes. She wondered how many would have second thoughts.
At the pet adoption center they stressed how important it was to try for the best “match.” Which she understood completely. Brute may or may not be her match. Which made her think about her son, and how different they were. Then, shockingly, he called.
“If you’re determined to get a dog,” he said, without even a hello. “Make sure it’s a small one, and older.”
“So we could both die together?” she asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Right.”
Brute was two years old and weighed forty-five pounds. A fire-hydrant of a dog. Strong like bull. She turned to look at him. Exhausted by their hour walk, he filled the pouf, his chin rested on edge, his eyes closed.
He would need bigger sweaters to fit his tank body. Maybe a raincoat or something quilted.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I already found my dog. His name is Brute.”