All I Ever Wanted

At the commercial break, Noah hit Mute. “So? You have a good time?”

I hesitated. “Um … well, the party was at the funeral home. Mom and Dad were there. It was fine.”

“Sounds like a shit bath to me,” he said.

“You were right to stay home,” I confirmed. Noah avoided family get-togethers as if they were hotbeds of ebola. He wasn’t exactly close with my father, his son. Dad’s brother, Remy, had died in a car accident at age twenty, and I gathered from the little Dad said that Remy was the type of son Noah had expected: rugged, quiet, good with his hands. My father, on the other hand, had spent his life schmoozing people as a drug sales rep. And, of course, there was my parents’ divorce. Noah, who had adored my grandmother and nursed her through the horrors of pancreatic cancer, fiercely disapproved. “I brought you some cake, though,” I added.

“Knew I kept you around for a reason,” he said. “Here.” He reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a little hand-carved animal … a dog. A husky.

“Oh! Thank you, Noah!” I gave him a kiss, which he tolerated with a mere grumble. He’d been making his grandchildren—and great-grandchildren—these little animals all our lives. I had quite a collection.

“You seem down,” Noah observed. This was deep in Dr. Phil territory from a man who didn’t spend a whole lot of time navel-gazing … in fact, Noah was the least sentimental person I’d ever met. He never spoke of my uncle Remy, but there was a picture of him in Noah’s room, the one thing that never needed dusting. When Gran died—I was six at the time—Noah didn’t shed a single tear, but his sorrow was palpable. I’d drawn him a card every week for months to try to cheer him up. Even when the bandages came off his leg for the first time, his only comment was, “Fuckin’ foolish.” No self-pity, no maudlin mourning of his limb. To comment on my emotional state … shocking.

I stared at him, but he didn’t look away from the muted television set. “Um … no. I’m fine.” I glanced at my wrist. Still wearing Mark’s gift, loser that I was. “Noah, I’m thinking I should probably find a …” the word boyfriend sounded so lame “… a special someone.” Ooh. Not much better. Far worse, in fact. “Care to share the wisdom of your long life?”

“Don’t do it,” he said. “Nothing but heartache and misery.” Underneath his white beard (Noah looked like a malnourished, possibly homeless Santa), his mouth twitched. “You can live here forever and take care of me.”

“And I do so love taking care of you,” I said. “How about a nice enema before bed?”

“Watch your mouth, smart-ass,” he said.

“Hey. Be sweet to me. I turned thirty today,” I reminded him. Bowie licked my hand, then turned on his back so I could see that his big white belly was just lying there, all alone and unrubbed.

“On second thought, ‘twouldn’t hurt for you to get a move on with life, Callie,” Noah said unexpectedly. “Don’t have to stay here forever.”

“Who else would put up with you?” I asked.

“Got a point there. You gonna talk all night, or can I watch Johnathan save this guy?”

“I’m going to bed. You need anything?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” He dragged his eyes off the TV. “Happy birthday, pretty girl.”

I paused. “Wow. It’s that bad?”

His beard twitched. “Cahn’t say I didn’t try.”

A few minutes later, washed and brushed and in my comfiest jammies (pink-and-yellow striped shorts, yellow cami), I was sitting in my rocking chair. Turning thirty was a momentous event in a woman’s life. Also, I needed to … I don’t know. Process things. And there was no better place to process anything than my Morelock chair, which I’d received twenty-two years ago to this very day.

There are two halves of Vermont—Old Vermont and New. Old Vermont was made up of crusty, rugged people who dropped their Rs and owned the same American-made pickup truck for thirty years, didn’t feel the cold and were immune to blackflies. Noah was Old, of course … he might not speak to his neighbor, but he’d cut and stack five cords of wood if that neighbor became sick. New Vermont … well, they were people who drove Volvos and Priuses, owned expensive hiking boots and hung out their laundry as a political statement as much as to get the clothes dry. They were friendly and cheerful … not like Noah at all, in other words.

Like my grandfather, David Morelock was Old Vermont. He was a furniture maker and Noah’s longtime compatriot. One summer, a reporter happened to be vacationing in St. Albans, where Mr. Morelock lived, and stumbled upon the furniture shop, learned Mr. Morelock had no formal training and didn’t even use power tools … just went out to his barn each day and worked. Two months later, the New York Times featured a story on Mr. Morelock, and bingo! He went from local craftsman to American legend. Suddenly, all those New Vermonters had to have a piece of Morelock furniture, and just like that, the old man had more work than he could manage. Before the story in the Times, his pieces had cost a few hundred dollars apiece. After the story, they sold for thousands, much to the amusement of their maker.

The day I turned eight was a bleak one in my personal history. Dad had moved out the week before, and in all the distress, my birthday was kind of forgotten. Mom was not only pregnant, heartbroken, furious, but also trying to manage a double funeral for a couple who’d died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Hester was away for the summer at some mathlete camp, and the end result was that Mom had hurriedly poured me some Cheerios, then shuttled me over to my grandfather’s. Noah popped me in his truck and drove to St. Albans. I don’t remember the reason.

At any rate, the two men got talking, and I wandered around the drafty old barn, picking up scraps of wood, drawing my initials in a pile of sawdust, trying not to be bothered by the fact that no one remembered that I was eight years old, because even then I understood that grown-ups had a lot of problems. Then I saw the chair.

It was a rocking chair, the type meant for a front porch. Made from honey-colored tiger maple, it was truly a work of art, elegant and slender, almost glowing from within. With a glance at Noah and Mr. Morelock to ascertain that they were too busy to notice, I gave it a little nudge, and it glided back soundlessly. Could I sit in it? There was no sign saying I couldn’t. I sat. The seat and back were perfectly proportioned, curving in all the right places, and when I rocked in it, the movement was as gentle and slow as a quiet river.

Even then, I recognized that the chair was special. It was so … graceful. And so happy, somehow. Just sitting in this chair would make a person feel better. Even if her daddy didn’t live at home anymore. Even if her sister was far away. Even if her mom hadn’t baked a birthday cake. This was a chair that promised a better time ahead. The tightness that had wrapped itself around my throat the day my parents told me they were getting divorced seemed to ease as I rocked, the motion somehow tender and deep.

Closing my eyes, I pictured, perhaps for the first time, what I’d be like as a grown-up. I’d have a rooftop apartment in Manhattan overlooking the entire city. There’d be a garden up there with lemon trees and glorious flowers, and I’d work all day on the Today show, and at night, I’d come home and Bryant Gumbel, my husband, would bring me a drink that contained alcohol, and we’d hold hands and talk about really adult things, and he’d never leave me, a fact I’d know beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“You like that chair, little one?” Mr. Morelock asked, and I jumped in guilt and opened my eyes, feeling my face burn.

“It’s … it’s very nice,” I mumbled, unsure if I was in trouble.

“Your grandpa here tells me it’s your birthday,” he said. I looked at Noah, surprised that he was aware of the date. My grandfather winked at me.

“Yes, sir. I’m eight,” I said.

“How’d you like this chair as a present?” Mr. Morelock asked, and suddenly, my eyes were wet, and I looked down at my lap and nodded, unable to speak. Then Noah picked me up and gave me a bristly kiss, told me not to go all sloppy on them, and did I thank Mr. Morelock? I wiped my eyes and did as I was told.

When Noah took me home that evening, he carried the chair up to my room. “You take care of this chair, young lady,” he said.

“It’s my happily-ever-after chair,” I said, quite pleased with the title. The chair gave my room an entirely new look, and suddenly my ruffled pink bedspread and unicorn poster seemed quite passé. Noah chuckled and ruffled my hair, then left me to worship my new treasure.

David Morelock died later that week. For some reason, his death hit me hard … it was like losing Santa or something, and I was raw anyway. Noah told me that my chair was the last one Mr. Morelock made, and more special and valuable than ever. I took Noah at his word. I didn’t want anyone to sit in it, even me … I saved it for those moments when I felt in need of the most comfort.

Like now. And as usual, the chair was working its magic. From outside came the rushing and gurgling of the Trout River. A distant owl called out. I rocked, the long, smooth glide always a shock of sweetness. Dear Mr. Morelock, how I loved him that day! Sending up a silent thank-you to my chair’s maker, I felt the tension in my shoulders surrender bit by bit.

Somewhere out there was the guy for me. Bryant Gumbel, alas, was spoken for, but somewhere in the Green Mountain state was a man who’d see me and love me and think I was the most wonderful person on earth. We’d get married, and there’d be days when I’d come home and we’d sit on the front porch, and all I ever wanted would have come true.

And so, shoving aside the feelings of sloppy misery and humiliation and summoning the relentless optimism I’d wielded all my life, I took a deep breath, causing Bowie to snap to attention as if I were about to announce something momentous and hugely brilliant. “Bowie,” I said, loath to disappoint, “let’s find you a daddy.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THURSDAY MORNINGS MEANT Senior Citizen Yoga. Granted, I was forty or fifty years younger than most of the other attendees, but since I was extremely unlimber and therefore made them feel good about themselves, I was welcomed. The fact that I brought my famous chocolate chip cookies was just gravy.

I never really got yoga. Indeed, I often dozed off during deep meditation at the end and had to be nudged back into consciousness by a classmate. Leslie, the instructor, often shot me disapproving looks as I blinked sleepily. Then again, I’d been getting those looks ever since I beat her out for prom queen. But I loved yoga class, because I loved the ladies and figured the exercise and chakra alignment (whatever that was) couldn’t hurt. Still, it was a little embarrassing to be the only one grunting as we moved into Upward Laughing Monkey.

One of the far-too-many reasons I loved Mark was that he was a wonderful boss. He gave us a flexible schedule, figuring happy employees worked harder, and so I could always squeeze in a yoga class or chaperone a field trip for one of my nieces. Besides, Mark encouraged his employees to be active in the community; like me, he was a Georgebury native, and we often did pro bono work for various nonprofit groups, including the Senior Center. We’d helped with the fundraising drive a couple of years ago, and I’d made some nice friends during that time.

I confess, I also enjoyed being fussed and cooed over. It was a commonly held belief that I was a jewel and destined for a wonderful romance with a wonderful man. I often heard things like, “You’re smart to wait for the right man, Callie, sweetheart. You don’t want to end up like my daughter/granddaughter/niece/sister/neighbor/self.” Then the horror stories would begin, and though I probably shouldn’t admit it, I loved hearing them. Jody Bingham (who could do a full split at the age of seventy-six and had better legs than I did) knew a woman who married a man who already had a wife, possibly two. Letty Baker’s daughter married a “crackhead pot-smoker” who was arrested during the wedding reception. Elmira Butkes’s daughter Lily was twice divorced—the latest ex was a poet, and the shocking news was that he didn’t make enough to feed an ant. He was suing Lily for alimony … insult to injury.

“Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Elmira said as we smoothly transitioned into Downward Looking Giraffe (well, some transitioned smoothly. Others looked like Downward Dying Giraffe, but I was trying). “Why can’t she find a normal man with health insurance and a decent haircut?”

We all murmured in sympathy, getting a dirty look from Leslie, who frowned on chatting during class. “Well, anyway,” Elmira said, “I took Mr. Fluffers to the vet this week, and he’s single—the vet, that is, not Mr. Fluffers—so I called up Lily right away and said, ‘Lily, the new vet is single. Why can’t you go after someone like that?’ Well, of course she didn’t listen to me …”

“You should give him a try, Callie,” Jody said, sliding into her trademark split, the show-off. “A vet’s almost as good as a doctor.” She smiled up at me and gave me a wink as I struggled into a distant approximation of her position. How Jody could smile while doing that was a mystery of physics and superior genes.

The new vet, huh? I thought. Very promising indeed! I’d worked for Dr. Kumar, the old vet, back when I was a teenager. Everyone adored Dr. Kumar. He offered coffee and doughnuts in the waiting room, gave out his home phone number and sang to nervous animals until they were literally eating out of his hand. He was so tenderhearted that he often cried more than the pet owner when Roscoe or Tabby had to be put down. He’d retired recently and had great plans to take the lovely Mrs. Kumar to Branson, Missouri, where they were eager to tour the wax museum and ride the duck boats.

This new vet … hmm. If Dr. Kumar had sold the practice to him, the new guy had to be a real sweetheart. Already, we had so much in common! Vets loved animals … I also loved animals! With a hopeful note ringing in my heart, I contorted myself into Westward Twisting Heron and made a mental note to call for an appointment this very day. It was worth a shot, and I was taking all the shots I could find.

Last night, for example, I’d registered on eCommitment. Annie had been more excited than I was, since her last first date had been at age 14. Several friends, including Karen, our office manager, had met their husbands online, so what the heck. Yes, it would be nice to meet someone the old-fashioned way … my maternal grandparents, for example, had met over a cadaver in mortuary school. Well, okay, maybe that wasn’t the epitome of romance I was going for, but still.

In the past, before Mark and I were together, I’d had a relationship or two. I wasn’t a troll or anything. In fact, men really liked me. I was quite attractive, if I do say so … smiley brown eyes, shiny brown hair (it ought to be shiny, considering the number and cost of the hair-care products I used). A dimple in my left cheek … adorable! I’d grown a little chubby in the past year, courtesy of trying to bribe my heart into a good mood by eating cake batter, but still fell in the pleasingly curvy range. My Wonderbra and I could manage some very impressive cleavage. Men’s heads still turned. I was popular with the River Rats, a local boating club who worshipped my grandfather. I met clients who, occasionally, were single, normal, age-appropriate males.

Despite my parents’ wretched example and Hester’s utter revulsion of the idea of marriage, despite the fact that Noah had been gutted by the loss of my gran, I’d always been an optimist. Love made you a better person. Made you feel protected and precious and chosen. Chosen. Such a lovely word! And in loving someone else, you became better … noble and generous and beneficent.

I stretched my arms wide in Gentle Gorilla and tried to embrace my karmic blessings, as Leslie was telling us to do. The new vet, huh? Employed. Educated. Smart. Someone who could definitely compare to Mark. No doubt this new vet was also tender, loving, funny, probably a fabulous cook with Ryan Reynolds abs. Ryan Reynolds everything, maybe.

Not that I was getting ahead of myself, of course.

I MANAGED TO GET an appointment to see Dr. McFarland late in the day, telling Carmella Landi, the longtime receptionist, that poor little Bowie wasn’t himself and I figured he should be checked out. “Got it,” she said, her voice short.

“I think he ate something weird,” I added, trying to be convincing. This was half true … Bowie ate something weird at least once a day … a sock, a chunk of wood, a bag of frozen lima beans. Once he ate one of Noah’s feet … the rubber kind that was attached to the end of a particularly ugly prosthetic.

However, as we got ready for the appointment (I’d gone home to fetch my dog, of course, and freshen up a bit), Bowie looked in fighting form, all glossy and gorgeous and yipping and singing, his unusual eyes winking at me as I adjusted my cleavage. Should I change my shirt? Yes. Pulling on a pale green short-sleeved sweater, I unbuttoned the top two buttons. Should I go for three? No, three was slutty.

“Try to act calm, at least, Bowie,” I said. “You don’t have to lie, but you don’t have to do somersaults, either.” I switched my earrings to match the sweater, added a green and blue beaded necklace, then smiled winningly at my reflection. “You’re adorable,” I told myself. “Come on, Bowie.”

Ordinarily, I’d have ridden my bike … Bowie, being a husky, was born to do one thing, and that was pull. Noah and I had rigged up a terrific little harness to hitch onto my bike, and my dog loved nothing more than towing me up the hills of our fair city. Today, however, I’d have to drive Lancelot, my green Prius. Couldn’t have my dog pull me three miles out of town if he was allegedly under the weather. I felt a pang at the untruth and said a quick prayer to St. Francis, patron saint of animals, as well as to Balto, the legendary sled dog whose heroics had given birth to the Iditarod, so that Bowie would remain in the pink.

It was humid today, the sky an unconvincing blue, and the forecasters had predicted heat in the mid-eighties, which was about as hot as Vermont was going to get. Mosquitoes, the Vermont state bird, were out in force, so it was just as well that I was driving.

Georgebury was a typical Vermont city—well, typical for the Northeast Kingdom part of the state, where the mountains were too small and too rough for skiing and the gobs of money it infused into the economy. No, Georgebury was scruffy, and we residents liked it that way. The downtown was set into a hillside, a few blocks of shops and offices and restaurants, the aging brick architecture from a more caring age, when builders left a legacy of arching windows and intricate details, high ceilings and wide-planked floors. Green Mountain Media occupied a Flatiron-style building on the V-shaped intersection of Allen and River Streets.

I glided past the office and headed up the hill to the more upscale, residential area of town—huge Victorian homes built by the mill owners in the town’s heyday, the beautiful town green, the athenaeum and town hall, the private boarding school. Misinski’s Funeral Home was here as well, tastefully painted in shades of dark green, yellow and rust, the long awning and hearse in the driveway marking the building’s function.

Though it certainly wasn’t necessary, I turned onto Camden Street. Just sightseeing, I lied to myself, looking for a car with rental plates. Almost against my will, I slowed.

Mark’s house was a place I’d always loved, a grand Craftsman with a stone front porch and a huge copper beech tree in the back. Of course, I’d pictured myself living here. Eleven months ago, I’d spent four nights here in Mark’s house, in Mark’s bed. My chest tightened as I looked at the yard. Our kids were supposed to have played there. Not gonna happen, the First Lady reminded me. He didn’t choose you. Move on. “Right, right,” I muttered. She had a point. Besides, no one seemed to be there. Maybe Muriel was staying elsewhere. Maybe this whole seeing each other was a lot less serious than it sounded.

With a sigh, I eased past Mark’s, heading down the other side of the hill.

The vet’s office was located out on Route 2, four or five miles from downtown. I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed Bowie’s leash and unclipped him from his doggy seat belt. “Let’s go, boy,” I said, trying not to stagger as Bowie lunged for the door. He adored Dr. Kumar, of course, and would often sing along as Dr. K. serenaded him. Bowie chugged right up to the counter. “Hey, Carmella,” I said. “Bowie’s here for a check.”

“Right,” she said, raising a knowing eyebrow.

“He ate something, I think,” I reminded her.

“Mmm-hmm.” Again with the eyebrow. “That seems to be going around.” She jerked her chin, urging me to look. I did.

Ruh-roh.

The waiting room was … gosh, it was pretty full, wasn’t it? And not just full. Full of women. Many of them young women. And um … you know … like me, sort of decked out, sort of shiny. Sort of single. Crap. There was Lily Butkes, who had apparently heeded Elmira’s advice, holding a very large Persian cat, which eyed me contemptuously. Aimee Wilder, who’d been a year ahead of me at school, clutched a trembling Chihuahua. “Hey, Callie,” she said, smiling. Dang it. She was quite attractive, very tall and lean and supermodelesque.

“Hi, Aimee, nice to see you!” I answered merrily. Also in the waiting room were two women I didn’t know, one with a hugely overweight terrier, the other with a ball python coiled around her arm. There was Jenna Sykes, another old schoolmate, who gave me a confident smile. A golden doodle puppy snoozed on her shoulder like a baby. Okay, that would be hard to beat. A puppy was an unfair advantage in man-seeking, especially if the man was a vet. I wondered if that was Jenna’s strategy. Not a bad idea when I thought of all the money we women invested to get a man—haircuts and color, makeup and moisturizers, minimizers, maximizers, lingerie, clothes, shoes, waxes … crikey! And all we asked in return was that they be semi-clean. At least Jenna’s investment would love her back.

“Have a seat, Callie,” Carmella said, taking out Bowie’s chart and clipping it to a board.

“Thanks, Carmella. Come on, Bowie.” I tugged and nudged my dog as he tried to sniff every square inch of floor, his curling tail wagging madly, sending clumps of husky fur through the air. “Come on, Bowie, be a good boy,” I reminded him. He sniffed the python owner’s knee, then, finding it to his liking, tried to lunge in for her crotch. “No, Bowie! Stop it! Please stop!” I commanded. “Sorry,” I said to her, reeling in my ridiculously strong dog. “He’s a people person.” She gave me a cold look from her reptilian eyes, and made a big point of brushing Bowie’s fur from her knee. You know how they say people resemble their pets? True.

“Jenna, you can go into Room 3,” Carmella said. “Aimee, Room 2.” Jenna stood up, still cradling the sleeping puppy, and shot me another confident smile. Aimee also rose, hips swinging in a passable runway walk as she strolled down the hall. I heard the rumble of a masculine voice, then Aimee’s giggle.

I sat and waited, the minutes ticking by slowly. This could work, I reminded myself. Men love us. Ball Python Woman was next, and frankly, I was glad. That snake had been staring unblinking at Bowie. I may not be big enough to eat you, the creature seemed to be thinking. Yet.

From where I sat in the waiting room—the coffee service was gone, much to my disappointment—I couldn’t see Dr. McFarland. And okay, clearly I wasn’t exactly original in bringing in my doggie for a quick once-over. But a girl had to try.

Ruh-roh. Here came Jenna, looking quite miffed as she held the now awake and squirming puppy. She scowled at Carmella as she settled the bill, then caught my eye. “May as well go to Dr. Jones in Kettering from now on,” she grumbled. “This guy’s a dick. Didn’t even give me the time of day.” With that, she stomped past me to the door.