Page 6 of Dirty Work

Or at least he was when he was with me. Lord knows what he and Una do for shits and giggles. I mean, she was his secretary, for God’s sake. Excuse me. Administrative assistant. Either way, a total freaking cliché. But at least he can’t complain he never sees her because she spends too much time at work. Lord knows I heard that refrain often enough. The fact that it was true didn’t make it any easier to hear. Long office hours are a given when you’re trying to make partner at a prestigious New York law firm.

I give myself a mental bitch slap for letting my mind wander back down the Dale-and-DK&G road as Roscoe and I take our place in line. My life has taken a complete one-eighty in the year and a half since Dale dropped his bombshell on me, breaking our engagement. And while I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t still sting a little, I don’t regret it one bit. Getting unceremoniously dumped on the eve of my wedding was exactly the wake-up call I needed.

Despite what my bitterly disappointed parents think.

“Can I pet your dog?” the girl in front of me in line asks. She looks to be about eight or nine, herAladdinT-shirt a dead giveaway as to what show she’s hoping to see. A woman who’s obviously her mother hovers over her shoulder.

“She loves dogs,” the woman says. “But I’ve taught her always to ask before petting one. You can’t tell just by looking if a dog is friendly, right Hannah?”

“Right.” The little girl—Hannah—nods vigorously, her pigtails bouncing.

“Go ahead.” I step to one side and nudge the dog forward with my knee. He’s almost as tall as she is. “Roscoe’s as friendly as they come.”

Sure, I haven’t known him long. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist—or the hours I’ve spent on the internet researching Irish wolfhounds—to figure out this guy wouldn’t hurt a flea. My first impression was way off. He’s more of a gentle giant than a vicious beast.

“Hey there, Roscoe.” Hannah holds her hand out to him, palm flat. Her mother really has taught her well. He sniffs it, then licks, and the next thing I know the two of them are thick as thieves while Hannah’s mom and I chat about shows we’ve seen and want to see. It makes the hour or so we wait to get up to the ticket window—during which another fifteen or twenty people stop to pet my big, slobbery, overly friendly companion, drawn in like flies to honey by his dopey doggy grin and fiercely wagging tail—fly by.

I have definitely underestimated the power of the pooch. I start thinking of other errands that might be more enjoyable with Roscoe along. Going to the farmer’s market in Union Square for Mrs. Black. Dropping off Mr. D’Ambrosio’s library books. Depositing Mrs. Matos’s Social security check. (No matter how many times I try to convince her, she refuses to sign up for direct deposit. Says she doesn’t trust computers. I don’t have the heart to tell her I usually go to the instant teller machine.) Maybe it won’t be so bad having a dog in our care after all.

When I’m ten people from the head of the line, I text one of the Ackerman twins, and she rushes over from Restaurant Row, where she works as a hostess, to take my place. I say goodbye to Hannah and her mom, check my phone and see I’ve got about forty-five minutes before I’m due to meet my mother. Rather than risk another cab ride, I decide to walk the High Line. Yet another one of Manhattan’s many pleasures I hadn’t had the time to experience when I was chained to my desk at DK&G. The elevated park on an abandoned freight railway, with its lush greenery, historic buildings and quaint overlooks, never fails to calm my nerves and soothe my senses.

The feeling doesn’t last long. At least not for me. I can’t speak for Roscoe, who doesn’t seem to be phased by much of anything.

“You’re late.” My mother purses her perfectly painted lips—Casablanca by Tom Ford, her day shade—and crosses her legs, not bothering to do anything so drastic as to, say, get up and give her own flesh and blood a hug.

“I’m right on time.” I pull out the chair opposite her and sit, not needing to check my phone since I’ve kept meticulous track of the time throughout our walk, doing my level best not to upset Mommy Dearest. Like I stood a chance of that happening. I think my mere existence pisses her off. She swears I wasn’t an “oops” baby, but it sure seems that way sometimes.

“On time is late.” She takes of sip of her sidecar—all she ever drinks, and only after noon—and gestures to Roscoe, who’s made himself comfortable at my feet under the table. “What is this monstrosity? And why are you so sweaty?”

I flag a waiter. I don’t usually drink on the job, but one beer won’t hurt. There’s no way I’m getting through this meal without a little liquid courage, especially with my mother already well into her first drink. “It’s good to see you, too, Mom.”

She doesn’t say anything, just gives me a judgmental stare over the rim of her glass. Eventually, I give in. Like I always do.

Well, almost always. I’m not going back to my old way of life, no matter how much she and my father guilt trip me.

“This is Roscoe.” I reach down to scratch the top of his big ole head. “He’s a who, not a what. I’m helping take care of him for the next few months. Or Odds & Errands is. And if I’m sweaty, it’s because we walked here from Midtown on the High Line.”

“Ah, yes. Your father and I donated to that project when it was first getting started.” Guaranteed that was the closest she’d ever get to it. My mother and the great outdoors did not mix well. Her idea of roughing it was staying in a hotel with fewer than five stars. “You couldn’t have left him at home?”

Yeah, I could have. I had time to get him back to Tribeca. But a little, rebellious part of me wanted to bring him to our lunch date, knowing it would get under my mother’s skin. Not that I’m admitting any of this to the woman sitting across the table from me, her judgey stare still intact. “You know how it is. Busy morning. I had a to multitask.”

The waiter finally makes his way over to us. I order a craft beer I’ve never tried—I like to experiment—and we both order our meals, kale and quinoa salad for Mom, naturally, and a thick, juicy burger with a side of fries for me. Her lips form an all-too familiar pout, making her disapproval evident. I ignore it and take a slice of warm, crusty bread from the basket in the middle of the table, dipping it liberally in their signature basil-infused olive oil. If I’m feeling really rebellious, maybe I’ll even order dessert. The crème brûlée cheesecake here is fantastic.

“Your little gopher business is going well, then?” my mother asks.

It’s the same conversation we’ve had hundreds of times. I tell her—for the hundredth time—that Odds & Errands is doing just swell, thank you, fend off the rest of her questions with the most banal, general answers I can give and make the expected polite inquiries about my father, aunts, uncles and cousins—all doing heaps better than me, of course—until our meals arrive and we eat in silence.

“So,” I say, sneaking the last bite of my burger to Roscoe, who thumps his tail in appreciation. “Was there a reason you summoned me here?”

“I did not summon you.” My mother sets her fork down, leaving half her salad uneaten, and dabs her mouth with her napkin. “I merely thought it would be nice if we spent some time together.”

Right. My mother never does anything without some sort of ulterior motive.

“It’s just that Martin Fletcher—you know Martin, he’s the president of our co-op board—well, he thought you might want to come to one of our tenant meetings,” she continues. “Talk up your services. I know you say you’re doing fine, but some new business couldn’t hurt, right?”

And there it is. My mother the white knight, swooping in to save what she perceives as my pathetic failure of an ass.

“Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to go. Roscoe should have been back home by now.” I push my chair back and stand, unraveling the dog’s leash from the table leg, where I’d tied it to keep him secure.