Good Riddance(28)

And what was my dad dwelling on now that the truth was finally out? Legally, she’s mine, but there is the shiny object of Armstrong, who’d never grounded her or given her an 11:30 curfew or made her take AP calculus.

Enough wondering where we stood! I called him. He answered, sounding out of breath. “I’m on a brisk walk!” he announced.

“Tell me where. I’ll catch up with you.”

“You can’t. I’m on the job.”

“Did you say job?”

“The best one I ever had!” And then, “No, Punkin. Wait. Stay. I have to pick it up.”

“Pick what up?”

“Not you—Punkin. A pitbull-Lab mix. She just pooped.”

“Did you get a dog?”

“No, it’s a client’s.”

I heard more baby talk, presumably aimed at Punkin, and then a monologue with someone named Gizmo. “How many dogs are you walking?” I asked.

“Three. You start with one and work your way up.”

“When did this happen?”

“Two days ago. I answered an ad on Craigslist. They liked that I was from New Hampshire, which sounded—who knows what they were thinking?—rural, good with animals. I didn’t disabuse them of that.”

“Did I know you loved dogs enough to be a dog walker?”

And with that, I got the first near-ironic answer of our unfortunate past few days. “I guess you’ve figured out by now that you don’t know everything about me.”

“Everything? How about next to nothing? What do you call running off to Concord like a lunatic?”

“Calm down. I’m having the time of my life. And I’ve been told by Manuel that dogs can be a magnet for the ladies.”

“Who’s Manuel?”

“My super’s kid. He’s in his last year at Bronx High School of Science, which I understand is for only the smartest kids.”

What Manhattan lifestyle expertise would be next? I said, “Call me when your shift is over.”

“I’ll probably take another crew out. You wouldn’t believe how well they all get along.”

“Come for dinner soon. My freezer can’t fit a fraction of my chocolate homework.”

After a “Gizmo, no!” and a “Good boy!” my father said okay, soon, but he had to get off—he couldn’t handle the phone and the leashes.

“Quick, though: This is a reputable company? They’re not taking advantage of you?”

“Very reputable. Look them up: New Leash on Life. Gotta go.”

I went straight to my laptop. Sure enough, www.newleashonlife.com featured smiling humans with adoring dogs. I clicked on the tab that said, “We’re hiring!” and read their screening questions. “Love furbabies? Like the outdoors and making your own hours? LOVE being greeted with excitement every day? And how do you feel about unconditional love?”

Had an absence of unconditional love and an empty apartment turned Tom Maritch into a professional dog walker? Now I had something new to be answerable for.



A Google alert under “Pickering, New Hampshire” brought the State House noise to Geneva’s attention and the person herself to my door. I’d ignored an earlier email marked with high-priority exclamation points and “Whaaaat the hellllll?” in the subject line. Below that, a link to a Concord Monitor story, dry and dignified, which had expanded on the reporter’s blog.

I answered Geneva’s knock. There she was in traffic-cone-orange overalls and a houndstooth sports bra. “Did you read what I sent you? It’s about the guy who was at our table at the reunion—Armstrong? The good-looker. And the man who got arrested for trespassing—his name is Maritch.”

Was she so self-involved that she’d forgotten our Thanksgiving dinner, where the Thomas Albert Maritch of the police log had been found charming and adorable by the entire table of ladies?

I could’ve said, No, that’s a relative. But I said, “Yes, unfortunately, that was my father, your recent dinner guest.”

“They arrested him, you know. Is he in jail?”

I told her that he was released on his own recognizance due to his being a sterling citizen his entire life.

“I want to talk with him. This could be my break.”

Her break. How could I stand her? Would I have to move to another building? I told her, as I’d told everyone who’d called or written, that it was all a misunderstanding. Had she noticed how half-hearted, even embarrassed, the newspaper account had sounded, as if reluctantly reporting on a heterosexual bachelor senator’s love life? I could imagine the editorial ethics that the Concord Monitor had to debate—we’re not the National Enquirer so let’s keep it as dignified as possible.

She reached into her bib pocket, removed her phone, and read, “Quote: ‘I was not involved with Mr. Maritch’s daughter. In fact, we’d met only once, at the most recent Pickering High reunion, where our conversation, if you could even call it that, was limited to establishing a memorial scholarship in honor of her mother, who’d been my yearbook advisor and mentor’ unquote.”

She touched the screen with a decisive thumb, then returned the phone to her front pocket.

I told her the whole thing was a misunderstanding, that the senator’s receptionist had overreacted—you know how touchy terrorism has made all of us—by summoning security. Yes, my father had been agitated, but it was politics. He was lobbying on behalf of the teachers’ union—some bill he didn’t like. Whatever arguments he was having with the senator were political.