A/N: Marigold's spunk reaches an all-time high in this chapter. I kind of liked that and gave her free-reign. Also, the second half is pure ridiculousness, but this story was in serious need of some levity and (selfishly enough) so was I. Happy reading! X
Now, if it wasn't for the perfectly therapeutic act of walking through downtown Waterford with a precious poochie in my arms, I would have been fuming by the time that I reached my car. Occasionally, I would catch my mind wandering into potentially harmful territories and had to reel it back in. The most common thought of the bunch was that the puppy was a metaphor for the feelings that Henry and I still very clearly shared with one another. Somehow, be it a phone call over Shipoopi's shot records or a chance meeting in the park or at the college, we would have to communicate again. It was a terrible conglomeration of a spoof of, oh, let's say The Parent Trap and traditional American joint custody. I could prepare myself for two Christmases, sure, but there would have to be a hell of a lot of booze in that nog!
I glided my hands across the tiny collie's fur as I walked. The red and brown patches on her face and back were coarse and the white fur beneath it grew in puffs, almost like down. It was the softest, most precious thing that I had ever touched, so soft, in fact, that it flowed like liquid between my fingers. "You're just a great big snuggle bug!" I observed, hopping off of the sidewalk and towards the Subaru, gleaming smooth and bright as the rind of a lemon as that famed South Carolina golden hour approached. "No wonder you're not taking well to leash training. A snuggly little woofer like you just needs to be cuddled, that's all." Smitten. It was Henry Anderson all over again!
She howled for most of the ride home. It was more of a squeak than anything else and so adorable that it didn't phase me in the least. Rush hour had clogged up the narrow streets on the way to Giselle's apartment. Downtown was a parking lot at this hour, so I switched on some music which, pricelessly enough, caused the puppy to start howling every time a note was held for longer than two counts. The Music Man soundtrack was pretty high on my favorites as is, and I clicked on "Shipoopi", silently meditating on how it was actually the worst name for a dog in the history of dogs with names. Especially one who was apparently such a little dickins on the leash!
"You've got a lot of moxie," I snorted to myself. "Who does he think he is?! Moxie. Psh." Ever the oddball, I would often chant along with the rhythm of my blinker. We must have been quite a scene to pass on the road, a howling puppy and a sawdust-covered woman chanting the word, "moxie" every time the blinker clicked. The inquisitive canine cocked her head to the side, interested in what my traffic jam-induced boredom was causing me to do. Her focus on the radio dropped away and she gave me a sharp yap every time I repeated that passé term. Moxie. Silly as it sounds, that was how my furbaby gained her name.
I was not concerned in the least about Giselle. Waterford is a dog-friendly town and nearly every tenant in her apartment had a pet of some kind. The worst that might come from bringing the puppy up the stairs and into the home would be a microfight or two over who she belonged to. Or she would start knitting her doggie sweaters, sewing little felt hats and eventually assembling a daily wardrobe for the poor creature. As I climbed those three flights of stairs, I began to realize just how tart of a pickle I was in. My job was anything but steady, my students and the schoolhouse were an even split for my attention and, despite the endless appeal of keeping my menu as sparse as possible, I had to eat. If Moxie was truly going to grow to Lassie-proportions, I would have to start buying dog food in surplus very soon.
"You're going to kill me," I began, sliding in through Giselle's open doorway. A gaping door was typically code for "art supplies haul" and she was either in the living room or on the elevator with an armful of shopping totes filled to the brim with bargain yarn and drums of glitter. I sulked into the kitchen, hunting for a cereal bowl and a bottle of spring water to give the puppy. I also contemplated my options for Moxie food. My uncle bred German shepherds and would give them Evian to drink and a combination of boiled chicken and rice for their meals, but that seemed extraneous. I pulled out my phone and started to research the cheapest and most natural diet to give a growing collie.
Giselle brushed past us, utterly preoccupied, dropped two large totes on the floor and started unfold her ironing board. She called it her "ironing bird", which suited the contraption rather brilliantly. The screech of rusty metal on rusty metal was horrific and strangely reminiscent of a squawking peacock with its toenail caught on a floor vent. Then again, so was Giselle's laugh. Moxie's ears perked up and she let out an elongated squeak, as if to match pitches with the noisy ironing board.
She twirled around to find the source of the noise so quickly that she bumped into the 'ironing bird' and it disassembled itself, giving out a final, sharp, metallic-sounding hiss before collapsing in a heap on the cluttered apartment floor. Silence. I had never seen Giselle look so pensive.
"Well…" I struggled, "my psychoanalyst did recommend a pet and since I plan on moving into my own place in a couple of months… I'm sorry."
A couple of paces in, the Giselle that I knew and loved started to reappear on the surface. But just barely. "You've been with Henry Anderson." My jaw very well may have dropped and joined the 'ironing bird' on the floor. How did she know? I was about to inquire when she leaned in and started to sniff my jacket like… well… like a sniffer dog! Moxie loved this and began pawing playfully at her hair. "You have! You smell just like that douchey bubble of Urban Outfitters cologne that follows him around everywhere! Oh, don't look so surprised! You can smell that crap in the next county! And who is your cute friend?!" I exhaled, just a fraction, watching as Giselle swung little Moxie's paw left and right in a semi-adorable handshake. "You know what this puppy needs?! A little hat! And man, oh man! Are you in luck, Doggo! Because I just happened to stumble upon the most fabulous iron-on-patches-and-transfers sale in the South! I still have several crates of accessories from when they foreclosed Build-a-Bear! I'll set you up with a hat for every occasion and a cute lil' applique to match! Wee doggie!"
"So, you aren't mad?" A silly question. Giselle was far too inspired to be mad. She proceeded to burrow into what was once a coat closet. Now, it was a barely functional pantry door that unhinged itself from time to time because the large quantity of totes and boxes from every craft store from Waterford to Charleston. "Whatever. You are clearly in beast mode. I'll leave you to it." She did not respond and instead, dumped a big, neon pink tub full of every hat that Build-a-Bear and American Girl had ever mass-produced. There were a few limited editions in there, too. I didn't tell her at the time, but I was totally onboard with Moxie wearing a little yellow rain hat, seeing as I had a little yellow rain hat, myself. Were there boots to match? I'm sure that there were, somewhere in that pantry of goodies. Along with the portal to Narnia, no doubt.
"Mare, be a peach and fix the ironing bird, will you?"
I stared out over the growing flood of doll clothes. My motherly instinct kicked in (I never knew I had one of those before) and I decided not to oblige. There were countless choking hazards on the floor at it was fairly obvious that little Moxie was teething. "It's dead, Zippy. You killed the ironing bird and you know it."
"Well, then go down town and get us a new one!" Beast mode, indeed. "Unless you want to iron those damned pinafores of yours on the sofa-couch!"
She had a point. Of course, they were overall dresses, but who was I to argue? To be honest, out of the countless cans of worms that I would potentially open by bringing the puppy home, I'd say that I got off pretty easy. Thanks to the demise of our deteriorating ironing board (so it goes), I had the good fortune to exit the apartment just as Giselle's crafty-gal-craziness peaked. Moxie and I drove to suburban Pembroke, where most of the larger, corporate stores were clustered on newly-paved roadways. I could have found everything that we needed in Waterford, but it would have meant multiple stops and some hardcore thrifting on my part. The last thing that we needed was a secondhand "bird" and frankly, we would get enough screeching from our cuddly new quadruped in the days to come. Between Target and Wal-Mart, I chose the latter. Their selection of homewares was exactly what I was looking for and I managed to find a rainbow, leopard-print ironing board that would make Giselle proud. The dog food, however, came up wanting. So, the two of us skipped out on Target and every pet store in Pembroke and returned to our roots.
There was a cute little groomer's across the street from Coffee n' San-tea called Mother Hubbard's Cupboard that had recently expanded into a pet store and, to my surprise, a pet nutritionist. It was owned by a cross-eyed transvestite named Tish (I adore Tish and am merely reporting the facts), who gave me an hour-long lecture on how to feed and care for Moxie. If that was not enough, Tish also passed on some brilliant insight on how incorporating tomato juice into her diet will keep her wee from turning the grass outside of Giselle's apartment yellow. It was a fruitful little excursion to say the least. We returned "home" shortly after sundown. At this time, I expected to find my wayward bestie up to her ears in doll clothes and thoroughly marinated by way of at least seven frozen wine coolers. To my momentary relief, she had embellished two hats for Moxie and moved onto her second project of the night. She was assembling two large, toothpaste-blue feather fans, sprinkling them repeatedly with glitter.
"Mare! Guess what we're doing tonight?!" At least she wasn't slurring. But I knew what those fans implied. Somewhere in Waterford, there was a karaoke machine with a recording of "Sisters" from White Christmas and our names written all over it.
"Come on! You and I have watched just about every 'mom can I keep him' doggie film there is! We're going to come home in about five hours and Moxie will have left the entire apartment in shambles!"
"The apartment already is in shambles, Mare Bear. Besides, Twist of Skate is just as pet friendly as they come, you know that! And with the affinity that lil' Mox has for 'singing' well…"
Initially, I said "no". Then "no" again for good measure. Still, I ended up at Benny Martin's skating rink downtown on karaoke night with a puppy in my arms and Tommy Martin begging for the alcohol-soaked cherry at the bottom of my long island iced tea. Giselle's idea. This tradition started after a high school production of White Christmas. The singing, not the drinking. We would recreate our performance every chance that we could find. The choreography would get sillier, the fans would get larger and glitzier with each reprise. It was deemed a local gem after several years and it was probably the only one of our shenanigans that our fellow Waterfordians truly loved.
We were going full slapstick this time and I needed at least two drinks in my system before I would be placid and confident enough to take the stage. I was just buzzed enough to sass Tommy and scare him away (poor kid) when it happened. A single glance across the dining loft of the roller rink caused my confidence to derail tenfold. Henry Anderson and his strangle little denim-clad companion, Boris, were lurking in the shadows, watching Pastor Benson wrapping up a strangely riveting rendition of Was (Not Was)'s "Walk the Dinosaur". He made up his own dance moves for the chorus, complete with little "t-rex arms" every time he sang (or rather, screamed) the word, "dinosaur". Henry appeared to be giving Boris a pep-talk. Not only was he on the verge of completely ruining karaoke night by crashing our "party", he had stolen our place in the queue! Giselle paraded across the room, glittery (shedding) fan and all and started to bully the DJ.
Meanwhile, I did my best to keep Moxie quiet. Boris, poor, sweet Boris, was getting an embarrassingly large amount of feedback from the microphone and well… the pup liked to match pitches! I took the distraction of Henry's struggling friend as an opportunity to sneak into a dark corner of the bar, out of their field of vision. It was also to hide my laughter. Boris was bombing. What's more, his song choice was... poetic to say the least. Despite the lyrics and bouncing ball on the floor in front of him, he just continued to sing first line of, "You Can't Roller-skate in a Buffalo Herd" over and over, without giving the bridges and the key changes a second thought. A little over a minute in, Henry saved him. He jumped, quite literally, onto the stage, which made his long hair fall rather dreamily into his eyes (the bastard) and they both started to sing "Rockabilly Rebel" by Orion.
Not only was this better, it was spectacular. Just speaking to Boris proved that his voice was as rich, warm and fabulous as a hot-out-of-the-oven brownie from Coffee n' San-tea. Waterfordians liked Orion because he sounded so much like Elvis and… please don't think me nanners, but Boris did, too! Henry faded away into the background, giving his friend his "moment". I suppose that was big of him. Everyone, even those who were roller skating below the loft, stopped what they were doing. The only person who wasn't phased by Boris' velvety pipes was Giselle. She was clearly looking for where I had escaped to, was upset about losing our place in the queue, being upstaged and needed either a shoulder to cry on or an arm to punch. The howling collie pup and I moved into the light just enough for her to locate us. I have a feeling that Henry might have seen me, too, because he started showboating something awful after that.
"Men!" She grabbed my hand and led me back to the bar, only slightly wounded to see that I had left my fan on the counter. "I say we get shitfaced and give them a sing-off that they will never forget! Two long island iced teas! And send two to Simon and Garfunkel over there. Tell 'em that it's on Zippy!"
"You're pissed at them so you're buying them drinks?" I looked down at my shoes. "You are the strangest woman I know…"
"It's code for the game is on, Mare! It's obvious that Hen hired a professional. Unfortunately, Mr. Buffalo Herd doesn't stand a chance against our dazzling, first-class showmanship. Now drink up!"
"Or we could just… I don't know, leave?! Unless you've completely forgotten what Henry did to me…"
Giselle shook her head and downed over half of her drink in one gulp, "Don't you fret, Sister, we're going to mop the stage with that loser, too! It'll be theatre camp all over again!" A thunderous, rock-concert-grade applause followed their act. I would later learn that this was the night that Waterford deemed "Rockabilly Rebel" as its self-proclaimed anthem and a mysterious bar singer by the name of Boris became a local hero. Giselle finished her drink and grabbed me by the hand, even tighter than before. "Don't you dare start grapevining and jazz-handing on me up there, Marigold Victoria Casey! Grapevines and jazz-hands are for amateurs! Do I make myself clear?!"
I felt sick. Not because of how ridiculous Giselle had become, but because blue-eyed, perfect Henry was looking right at me from across the room. He held steady to his microphone and tapped the DJ on the shoulder. This must have set Giselle off, but I didn't quite notice at the time. He started a new song, a solo this time, with a rather lost looking Boris struggling to sing backup. I recognized the song as Brooks and Dunn's "My Maria". Only problem was, Henry had altered the lyrics to "My Marigold" and… let me tell you, when he got to the falsetto, borderline yodel of a line, "My Mariii-iii-iii-iii-iii-gold! Mariii-iii-iii-iii-iii-gold, I love youuuuuuuu!", my heart cracked just about as badly as his voice did. I could feel my face turning from stark white to a blush that would make a vintage wine jealous.
We exchanged a smile, then a laugh from across the room and he continued with his terrible cover of one of the best country songs in history. It didn't even matter if I was bordering on drunk, he would have found the same response in me if I was sober. He received a tiny applause, most of which was meant for Boris, I think, who held his own beautifully. I passed the puppy and (rather heartbreakingly), the fan to Giselle and walked up the steps and into his arms, grinning so widely that I could have sworn my face would freeze that way.
"That went well! Perhaps I should do this more often," he joked as I melted into his embrace.
Everything about him from the way that his large hands fit around the small of my back to the sweet, smoky aroma of the cologne on his collar and in his hair, intoxicated me. He was my custom-made aphrodisiac. "Never again. You know, they used to tell us in high school choir that in order to sing properly, we had to pretend that we were Brits!" I slipped my fingers into the silky terrain of his brown waves, feeling him gravitate towards me and I let him. For a second or two before returning the favor and giving him my all, I welcomed the otherworldly softness and warmth of his lips. It felt right. As though we were picking up the pieces of something that wasn't so broken after all. Kissing him on the stage that night felt like coming come…
