My parents got Rocky number one before they had us. When I was three, they got Fordy. When Rocky one passed on, we got a new puppy, named him Rocky, and off we went. When Fordy died, enter Fordy two. My aging parents still have Rocky four and Fordy five. My brother Roger absconded with Fordy four. Which means there are two Fordys running around at every family reunion. Then Roger went and named his son Rocky. Don’t get me started.
When Neil and I married, I got not only in-laws in the deal, but cats. Three of them, all gone now. Hairy was ‘Lainey’s cat.’ Lainey’s cat for whom I cleaned the litter box, and who I fed and watered, took clawing and yowling to the vet, and, every so often, to the groomer for a first-class cut and poof that cost three times as much as my own economy-class haircuts.
It wasn’t that Neil disliked dogs; he loved Rocky and Fordy. When we went to the farm, he was often out throwing a stick or taking them for walks down to the lake. He explained that he didn’t want to own a dog because ‘dogs tie you down.’ Like a wife, two teenagers at home, a son at college, and a thriving medical practice didn’t. He was also fond of saying, ‘The only good dog is someone else’s dog.’
The phone rang. I pushed back, trying to wriggle out, but the only part of me moving was the flab on my upper arms. The phone rang a second time.
‘Damn!’ It might be one of the kids calling from school. Or even Sam. Although Matt and Lainey rarely called these days – very uncool in high school – and Sam had called only once since he’d left for college last year. For money. But old instincts die hard. A third ring. I pushed myself backward but my hips were stuck. Painfully stuck.
‘Ow! Goddamn it, Hairy!’ I had to blame someone for my big butt, and Hairy was as good a candidate as existed. I twisted sideways, pushed off the center pole of the spinner, and finally shimmied out, lunging for the phone.
‘Hello!’ I said, somewhat angrily.
‘Deena? I was getting ready to leave you a message.’
‘Hi, Elaine.’ I breathed deeply, trying to catch both my breath and my temper.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. I got stuck in my cabinet.’
A pause. ‘Come again?’
‘That damn Hairy got into the lazy Susan cabinet again and he won’t come out for Pounce or punishment and I can’t reach him and he gets cat hair all over everything!’
‘Oh, God! No!’ she shrieked in mock horror. ‘Has the press arrived?’
Elaine had a way of trivializing my problems, which were, admittedly, mostly trivial. I leaned back on the desk and pulled a paper clip from the drawer and began pulling it apart.
‘Very funny. I’ll have you know we had another Szechuan Persian Hair incident the other night. It grossed out the whole family. Even Matt.’ If my sixteen-year-old eating machine wouldn’t eat something, it was newsworthy.
‘But especially you, I bet. A little cat hair’s not gonna kill you.’ A pause, and then just the slightest change of tone. ‘Y’know, you didn’t used to be such a neat freak.’ True. Elaine and I had lived together for almost two years at the University of Wisconsin, and we would not have won any awards for the cleanest apartment. But it was Elaine’s boyfriend at the time, with the unusual first name of Meyer, who was the real culprit, a world-class slob. He drove Neil crazy. Thank God Elaine hadn’t married Meyer.
‘Hey, have you seen Peter lately?’ I asked, changing the subject. It was Peter Ham she’d married. Before she’d reckoned with the fact that she was a lesbian. I’d always suspected it. Peter had too, it turned out, but loved her so much he’d married her anyway. Now Elaine and Peter both delighted in telling people that they’d been married just long enough for Elaine to become a Jewish Ham.
‘He’s great! Just saw him and Bethany at the grocery store yesterday, actually. They’re making all sorts of plans for next year. You know Seth’s graduating from high school this year?’
‘No!’ Seth was their youngest. Well, it made sense. Peter had married Bethany about a year after his divorce from Elaine was final.
‘Yeah. I think they’re kind of looking forward to the empty nest. They’re talking about going on a cruise next fall.’
‘A cruise! Where?’ Neil and I used to say we’d do that after our kids were all gone. But it hadn’t come up in years.
‘Alaska. Not my idea of a cruise, but they’re all excited about it.’
‘Let me guess, your idea of a cruise is something more tropical?’ That’s what Neil and I had fantasized about.
‘Exactly. Give me that sun, sand, and margarita any day!’ A little sigh from both of us as we contemplated life in a lounge chair.
‘So,’ we both said in unison.
‘Your turn,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’ve been yakking away, as usual.’
I missed her. Over the decades she’d come out to visit every few years, and we talked on the phone often. But I was amazed our friendship had stayed so strong. Our paths couldn’t have been more different.
‘Okay. I was just going to ask about Wendy, and your art.’ I loved and hated asking about both. Elaine was always so passionate about those subjects that it tended to draw a sprawled sidewalk chalk line around the lack of passion in my own life.
‘Wendy’s fantastic! New accounts all over the place. I’m so proud of her. As for me, well, suffice to say I’m having a ball. Doing some new things. We’ll see where it goes.’ She was unusually circumspect. Probably swamped at work. She was the art director for Art of the Matter magazine. Unlike me, Elaine had not only gotten her bachelor’s in art, but had gone on for a master’s, then built an impressive résumé. Plus, she’d been doing art on her own all this time for her own pleasure, even had an occasional small show in Madison.
‘So, what were you doing before you got into the cat-extrication business?’ she asked. I loved Elaine. She could always make me smile.
‘Scrubbing grout.’ The words clunked to the floor like bricks.
‘Oy-vey, girlfriend!’ she cried across the miles, sounding both Jewish, which she was, and black, which she was not. ‘What is it with you and cleaning the past few years? You gotta get out.’ She said it like ‘owwwwt!’
‘But I’m a full-time mom, it’s my job. And my kids still need me, even if they don’t think so.’
‘Well, of course they do, Deena-leh, but not every waking minute. It’s not like they’re babies, hon.’
Babies. Now there was unconditional love. These days it felt like all my kids needed me for was as a wall to push off of. ‘No, they’re not babies.’ Another little sigh slipped out.
‘Whoa, Nelly! Don’t tell me you’re thinking about another baby again!’
In my early forties, my ovary must have burped or something and I’d approached Neil about having another baby. After we’d poked the vein back into his forehead, we’d agreed we were way too old. Besides, babies grow up into teenagers. I’d eventually be right back where I was now. Which, ironically, was wanting to be something other than a wife and mother. More and more I found myself fantasizing about leaving. Just up and leaving. Fantasizing. I wouldn’t actually do it. Probably not, anyway. No. Of course not.
But I could fantasize, right? Every day.
‘No. No more babies. Probably couldn’t even if I wanted to. Haven’t had a period in months.’ Not to mention the part about having to have sex in order