Fools Rush in(39)

“Okay,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze as a customer waved impatiently. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I stopped at the market on my way home and bought a jumbo bag of Cheetos, the ultimate self-pity food. Changing into my pajamas, I turned on the TV and tore into the bag. What was the point? I thought, sucking orange powder off my fingers. I had no one to impress. There was nothing on the three channels that my antenna picked up. Maybe I should invest in a satellite dish, since I obviously wasn’t going to have a boyfriend.

I tossed Digger a Cheeto, which he caught midair and swallowed without apparent chewing. Digger and I could have lots of fun together, eating Ben & Jerry’s and cheese curls and Hershey’s bars. I could become fat again. I would just eat and eat, all sorts of grossly delicious things, like an entire Pepperidge Farm coconut cake, and six scrambled eggs with cheese, and a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and so what? Who would care? It wasn’t as if all this work had paid off one tiny iota. Joe paid just as much attention to me now as he had when I’d been fat and worn braces.

Digger stood up and put his head in my lap. I stroked his silky ears and gave him another Cheeto. Who needed stupid Joe Carpenter? I had a dog. I didn’t need anybody. Even as I thought it, I felt the ultimate humiliation: tears pricked my eyes. Oh, fantastic. Here I was, 8:30 on a Friday night, relentlessly stuffing my face, while the love of my life, the man I knew better than anyone, was probably making out with his girlfriend at my favorite restaurant. It just sucked. I started to cry in earnest, choking a little on the soggy orange mass in my throat. A good cry would make me feel better, wouldn’t it? But I felt stupid, crying by myself, and besides, Digger kept trying to climb up on my lap and lick the delicious combination of salty tears and Cheetos dust off my face. I pushed him down and blew my nose.

I wanted to call someone. Katie was working. My mother would be horrified that I was crying and would no doubt rush right over, which I didn’t want. I just wanted someone to feel sorry for me, to share my misery. Trish? We’d never had that kind of a relationship. Sam? He didn’t know about my love for J.C., and I felt embarrassed at the thought of telling him. Mitch or Curtis? No, they would be busy on a Friday night, holding hands and exchanging pithy witticisms with their P-town friends. There was nobody. Nobody would understand. Boo hoo hoo.

Pulling the afghan over me, I fumbled for the remote and clicked on the TV, unaware that the next day, everything would change.

I WOKE UP LATE, STIFF and crusty-faced, cramped from spending the whole night on the couch. Digger was draped over my lower half, having cut off my circulation for God knew how long. I staggered into the bathroom, wincing at my puffy eyes ringed with smudged mascara. A smear of orange ran across one cheek.

Heaving a great sigh, I washed my face and made some coffee. Forcefully deciding to think of something other than Joe, I read the paper instead. I was off for the weekend. I had no plans. Maybe Mitch and Curtis had a room open, and I could visit them. Their place was so charming, and P-town so festive and cheerful that I would surely feel better if I got out of town for a night. I hadn’t seen the boys for a few weeks, and it might be fun to get all dolled up and show them the fruits of their labor.

But first, a run. After consuming about eight thousand grease-saturated calories in one sitting the night before, I felt rather ill. I had to exorcise all of that hideous, orange fat from my body and get my brain into gear. Plus, Digger was staring pointedly as his leash and wagging his tail.

I tidied up the living room, cringing as I balled up the empty Cheetos bag and stuffed it deep into the trash. Changing into running shorts and T-shirt (Al’s Slaughterhouse, Des Moines, Iowa), I decided to drive to Coast Guard Beach and run along the water with my pup. It would be harder than running on the road, and I needed the extra work. Besides, it was impossible to be sad if one ran near the ocean in June.

Digger was doubly joyful to be going in the car, and he thrust his head out the window, snuffling happily as we zipped down Ocean View Road to the beach. The air was clear and cool, and seagulls soared on the breeze. Because school had not let out yet, there was still parking at the beach available, and I pulled into a spot and got out of the car, Digger leaping excitedly next to me. Maybe today would be a good day, I thought. Couldn’t be worse than yesterday.

As I got out of the car, my heart sank. Joe’s truck sat in the parking lot. Damn it. I stared at the truck, wondering if I wanted to go down to the beach. Nope, I decided. I’d just run down the road instead. A Joe encounter would be too disheartening, and my heart was low enough.

So lost in thought was I that I didn’t notice Sam’s cruiser pulling in next to me.

“Hey, Millie,” he said. I jumped.

“Oh, hi, Sam. Hi, Ethel.” Sam’s partner glared balefully at me and nodded her gray head in greeting.

“Going for a run?” Sam asked.

“I guess,” I answered.

Suddenly, the cruiser’s radio crackled. We all listened obediently.

“Attention Eastham Fire and EMS. Signal forty-two. Report of woman in active labor. Coast Guard Beach. South of boardwalk, near lifeguard stand number four. Father will be waving a yellow towel.”

“Fuck me!” Ethel cursed, snatching up the radio to respond. Sam leaped out of the car.

“Help us out, here, Mil!” he called over his shoulder, running for the boardwalk.

“Here!” I said, thrusting Digger’s leash into Ethel’s hand. I sprinted to my car, grabbed my doctor’s bag out of the trunk and raced down the boardwalk, sliding on the sandy planks, and headed south down the beach. There was the dad about a hundred yards down, waving the yellow towel. I dimly registered the sand in my sneakers, the bright colors of the beach, the hiss and boom of the waves. A crowd clustered around the woman. Sam was a few yards ahead of me, and I raced up to him. Ethel trailed us with my dog, her decades of smoking not allowing her to run.