“I’m still evolving.”
“Sounds like you have a solid plan, sweetie. Maybe when you’re a veterinary technician an abandoned dog will be brought into the office. People will ask if anyone wants to adopt it, and maybe you’ll be the one.”
“I will be the one,” Parker said.
“And you can name it Brownie.”
“No! There is only one Brownie!”
That night the Cool family all agreed there was only one Brownie.
• • •
Parker checked the balance on her humble Visa. She had enough to cover dinner for three at the Corner Stable, a neighborhood rib joint traditionally reserved for Cool family occasions. The booths were full, so Parker and her parents huddled up at the bar. It was no one’s birthday, wasn’t her parents’ wedding anniversary – Richard Cool was almost sure as he noticed Steve hadn’t been invited. What was Parker up to now?
For starters, she bought them a round of beer.
“I have some news,” she said, staring into her reflection in one of the three flat screens over the bar that happened to be on the fritz. She saw herself looking back at herself in the black screen – a fish-bowled rattled version of herself. Parker imagined this moment would be joyful and celebratory with champagne toasts and giddy plan-making. But life often goes off-road even on quiet, dusty Church Lane. Parker broke from her self-stare-down.
“I’m going to be a mom.”
It came out like a press release, but at least it came out. She had told them about meeting a man named Alex. Left it at that, filled in no further details. So, Parker has met a man, Richard, and Grace Cool had discussed briefly before branching off the subject. She was always meeting men or they were always meeting her. None of them got any traction, none of them were serious.
“What?” her father said.
“I’m going to be a mom. Alex and I are going to be parents.” Parker faced herself again in the darkened flat screen.
“Well, this is exciting news,” her mother tried. “Ed, looks like we’re going to be grandparents.”
An alert waiter named Mike – they had him before – leaned in to ask if they were ready to order. They were not, and he didn’t force it.
“Who’s Alex?” Richard Cool asked in a voice that struck Parker as spooky neutral.
His wife refreshed his memory on the scant details offered them upon Alex’s arrival in their daughter’s romantic orbit. They had never met him, of course. Didn’t know his last name. Job? Prison record? Republican? Richard Cool pushed his Yuengling away.
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Honey, that’s a personal question, don’t you think?”
“Hell yes, it’s a personal question, Grace. All of this is personal. This whole night has been pretty goddamn personal if you ask me.”
Waiter Mike thought about leaning back in to take their order but veered off to the other end of the bar.
“Dad, it’s 2010. Plenty of people live together, have a baby, and raise it together.” Parker doubted listing the year would mitigate the shock, but it was a worth a try.
“You’re living with him?” her mother said.
Since last month, Parker said. That was the other news she planned to tell them. She wished they would order: her dad getting his usual full rack of back ribs; her mother a crab cake with a half a rack; coleslaw and stable fries all around. Multiple adult beverages.
“I’ll be OK. I promise. Please don’t worry about me. I have a partner, and we’ll raise our baby together.”
Her mother reached out and patted Parker’s hand. She never liked her mother or anyone patting her hand or shoulder or anything, always felt a little creepy this patting business. But tonight the touch of her mother’s hand unexpectedly charged her with love, acceptance and the promise of another partnership.
“Please, Dad. Say something.”
“I just don’t want…” he said, “… I don’t want you to be alone.”
Parker reached over and patted her father’s shoulders.
“I won’t be alone. I won’t be.”
Mike the alert waiter swooped by just as nice as he could, and he interrupted everything for which the Cools were grateful.
“Y’all ready to order?”
• • •
“You have coffee dragon breath. Since when did you start drinking coffee?” said Alex Cavanaugh, former high school wrestler and current manager at the Gold’s Gym on Richie Highway. The boyfriend and father of 5-year-old Dailey Grace Cavanaugh.
They had been living together for five years in Eastport over the Spa Creek Bridge from downtown Annapolis. Eastport was more Cape Cod and Key West than downtown Annapolis maritime proper. With its pocket parks and pubs, the town was Parker’s speed. Named after the city in Maine, the town was walkable, drinkable and generally unaffordable for 28-year-olds. Two incomes barely covered the essentials.
Alex rolled over and took three-fourths of the buttermilk-colored comforter. Parker clung to her side of the queen bed in their two-story on Chester Street. Her feet were cold, but they were always cold (no one’s fault there). Multiple layers of socks were ineffective; wader socks made from caribou hide could not have cut the chill. Her boyfriend took the good head pillow, of course he did.
If he would only fall asleep, she could reclaim the comforter and pillow she brought into the relationship. As if entombed, Parker did not speak or move on her side of the bed. She wondered if they left the outdoor floods on or was it the moon. A walk in all this light would be wonderful. It would be easy to slip out and walk by the marina across the street, hear the sailboat masts clank. Listen for restless dogs or chittering raccoons. Please start snoring, Alex.
“Who did you have coffee with, Park?”
“I had coffee with a girlfriend. I like coffee. I have liked coffee for many years.”
“What girlfriend?”
“My secret lesbian lover, Alex. The one I’m going to leave you for. What do you mean what girlfriend? Paige from work, OK? Paige, a woman, not a guy, not even a lesbian, as far as I know. Hell, I wish she was. Call her up tomorrow if you don’t believe me.”
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
“You are driving me fucking crazy, you know that?”
Parker flung off the sheet. He heard her slip into her jeans and cozy her feet into her running shoes. She didn’t bother lacing up. She always wanted to stomp out on somebody. She hoped she didn’t wake Dailey in the smaller of their two bedrooms. But the girl was a notorious deep sleeper, always was.
“Where are you going?”
“For a walk. By myself.”
The night was chillier than she figured, but 4 a.m. was always chilly. She didn’t feel like hopping the fence at nearby Mears Marina to creep up on silent sailboats. Parker walked up Chester Street and the three long blocks up Sixth Street toward the drawbridge at Spa Creek. The Royal Farms was open. Piping hot coffee called to her in whale song, but she kept walking.
They met in junior year of high school, a dull mess of a year. The only bright spot was Parker’s English teacher, Mrs. Chisholm, who believed students should read good poems and books. Not only read them but talk about them, dissect them, argue for their very goodness. And Mrs. Chisholm had saved the best for last. At the start of the fourth quarter, Parker was assigned “The Grapes of Wrath.” Each student would be required to read a key passage