Dress For Success by Stephanie Greene

Caroline bought her dachshund a Harvard coat. It was maroon polar fleece with an oversize insignia. Forty-five bucks to impress her new boyfriend’s family.

But Ruckus was not Harvard material. Tailgating at The Game, he yanked free, barked at babies, and absconded with a turkey drumstick. When she caught him, Caroline couldn’t leave him in the car, afraid he’d open the hamper or attack the upholstery, so she walked him around the roaring stadium, waxing philosophical. Kip and his parents went inside.

She figured that was that. But the Haywards mistook her good humor at having been spared the game for a painful sacrifice borne with grace. They liked her, talking up team spirit and good character as they made Manhattans. They overlooked her tattoos.

Stranded at home that fall, Kip had wanted to needle his parents, insisting Caroline bring the wayward Ruckus, too. “They love dogs!” What they actually loved was big, tired dogs who never barked and greeted all comers with a tail-wag before flopping onto the rug.

On-site, Ruckus made a sniffing tour of the house. Kip followed him, calling to no avail, concerned the animal might find his emergency coke stash.

In the privacy of his bedroom, Kip lunged for Ruckus, missed, hitting his head against the bureau. Ruckus snapped at him, pelted down the stairs and unseen by his hosts, lifted his leg on the newel post. He trotted into the living room and curled up at his hostess’s feet.

“What a nice little companion!” Mrs. Hayward said. She turned to Caroline. “Tell me, Dear, what do you do?”

“I’m a bartender.” No point hiding it.

“How did you two meet?”

“At a wedding. The caterer was short-staffed.” Caroline took a sip of the Manhattan, judged it undrinkable, and placed it on a coaster featuring Kip on a sailboat.

“I hope our son was a good tipper,” said Mr. Hayward, laughing at his own joke.

Caroline glanced at Kip, who’d appeared in the doorway with an icebag on his head. “I don’t recall,” she lied.

“Darling, what happened?”

“I tripped over the dog.” He glared at Ruckus, who wagged his tail.

“And what does your father do?” asked Mr. Hayward, getting down to business.

“I really don’t know.”

“I find very few young people do know their fathers’ work these days. It’s safe to say “engineer”, Mr. Hayward supplied, feeling generous.

“I don’t think he knows he’s my dad,” Caroline said.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Hayward. 

Mr. Hayward chuckled. “Then you don’t have to fret about pleasing him on Father’s Day.”

“True,” Carolyn replied, keeping a straight face. Her chest hurt, as though he’d casually flicked open her heart, the way he might shuck an oyster.

“Have you ever tried to find him?” Mr. Hayward asked.

Caroline regarded his pink face and small, even teeth. “I had rescue fantasies when I was young. Then I started studying my friends’ fathers, and thought I might be better off without.” She was going to add, “No offense,” but decided against it.

“My dear, I apologize for my husband,” Mrs. Hayward broke in.

“People are curious. DNA searches reveal all kinds of things. One woman discovered she was the daughter of a guy who’d donated sperm as a med student. She contacted him; but he didn’t want her rocking the boat. He couldn’t have foreseen what would happen twenty years later.”

“I’ll bet,” Kip said.

The sight of his sloppy grin exhausted Caroline. She regretted the curiosity that had drawn her here.

Mrs. Hayward went into the kitchen. Banging pots and cupboard doors slamming brought Caroline to her feet. “I’ll go help.”

 Caroline couldn’t recall if pets were allowed on the T; Ruckus made an unconvincing service dog.

“I’m so sorry about all this, Dear. It’s none of our business.” Mrs. Hayward whisked the Bechamel sauce with fury.

“Is there a bus I could catch into town? Kip shouldn’t be driving.” Caroline retrieved the baggie of kibble and bowl from her satchel. Ruckus made quick work of it.

Mrs. Hayward put down her whisk, resolute. “I’ll take you. Have a bite first.”

The scrod was buttery, the new potatoes and creamed spinach, delicious complements. The men discussed the Boston teams. Caroline, who heard sports talk through every shift, didn’t join. There was orange pound cake for dessert and surprisingly good coffee. Caroline turned to Mrs. Hayward.

“Did you paint that still life?” She nodded toward a canvas of poppies.

“Yes. How did you know?”

Caroline glanced at Kip and shrugged. “Just a guess.”

“I went to the Museum School.”

Caroline grinned. “I finished at Mass Art last June. Sculpture.”

Mrs. Hayward sighed. “Not the most practical degree….”

“It’s a privilege to be impractical for four years, right? I can support myself. Whose business is it?”

Mrs. Hayward leaned in, her chin in her hand. “I love Joseph Cornell.”

“Food for the soul,” Caroline agreed. “Are you painting?”

“Oh, not for ages. Do you still sculpt?”

“I work small these days. I’m making a miniature army based on the terra cotta

 soldiers in Shaanxi.” Ruckus nudged her leg.

“I should take the dog out.”

“I’ll warm up the car.” Mrs. Hayward cleared the dishes and got her coat.

Caroline gave Ruckus a quick walk, went upstairs and gathered her things. She said her goodbyes to the men watching tennis. Kip blew her an absent-minded kiss.

The car, private as a confessional, purred along the empty streets.

“There’s a Cornell show coming to the MFA. Would you come as my guest?”

“Mrs. Hayward…”

“Elizabeth, please!”

“Elizabeth, this may be presumptuous, but I’m guessing you have some kind of plan. The thing is, I’m bad at being adopted. Other people have tried…it doesn’t end well.”

“I see.”

They drove silently until they reached the T.

“Thanks for your hospitality, and for the lift.” Clutching a wriggling Ruckus in his fancy coat, Caroline couldn’t wave.

“I’m sorry about your life,” she added, watching the car’s disappearing lights.

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Stephanie Greene

Image by David from Pixabay – daschund puppy in shadow with a glint in his eye.