Melancholy Baby

“So far,” Barbara said, “we can’t locate any.”

“What makes her think she is adopted?”

“She won’t say. Can you meet with her?”

“I suppose,” I said.

“Can you come to my office?”

“You still in Andover?” I said.

She was. We made a date and I hung up. What I didn’t feel like doing was working. But maybe, in the long run, it was better for me than sitting by the window, drinking Irish whiskey. Rosie went to the coat rack by the door and stared at her leash. I didn’t feel like walking her, either. Actually, I didn’t feel like doing anything. Maybe talking to someone. Usually when I felt this bad, and I had never felt this bad since Richie and I divorced, I talked to Richie. My mother and my sister were out. My best friend, Julie, would genuinely care, but she would have a little inside, unspoken thrill of satisfaction that my love life was fucked up, too. And I would sense it, and it would make me mad. My father would hug me. But what could he say.

“We’re awful goddamned alone,” I said to Rosie.

She continued to gaze at her leash.

“Except for Spike,” I said.

Rosie’s gaze toward the leash wavered for a moment when she heard Spike’s name. She loved Spike almost as much as she loved me... and Richie. And she always had fun with him. I tried to smile at her.

“Okay,” I said.

My voice still sounded hoarse to me, and thick with sadness.

“We will kill two birds. You’ll get your walk, and Spike will make me feel better. Maybe.”

3

Rosie had on her black-and-white leash, which matched her black-and-white collar, which matched her coloration. She pranced, and I walked along Atlantic Avenue through the maelstrom of Big Dig construction to Spike’s Place on Marshall Street, near Quincy Market. Spike used to manage it when it was a casual restaurant during the day, and perform in it when it was a comedy club at night. Now he owned it. The first thing he had done was change the name to Spike’s Place. The second thing he’d done was to retire from show business. He canceled the comedy club and upgraded the dinner menu.

The décor was still the bare-beams and weathered-brick look it always had been. But the food was greatly improved. The service was good. The help dressed better. And Spike, now with a financial stake in things, had attempted an attitude upgrade, which, given his temperament, was not entirely successful.

Inside the front door of Spike’s Place was the hostess stand, and on the table was a small sign that read No dogs allowed, except seeing-eye. The hostess, a pretty young woman in a yellow linen dress knew me, knew Rosie, and made no comment as she led us to a banquette for two along the wall at a right angle to the bar. Rosie hopped up beside me on the banquette.

“You want to see Spike?” the hostess said.

“Please,” I said.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” the hostess said. “You want anything?”

“Just some coffee,” I said.

“I’ll send some over,” the hostess said.

She spoke to a waitress as she walked toward the back of the room. The four women at the next table were having an early lunch and discussing a recent production at the American Repertory Theatre. They seemed enthusiastic. The waitress brought me coffee and a roll.

“Roll’s for Rosie,” the waitress said.

“Thank you.”

I stirred some milk and Splenda into my coffee. Rosie fixed a beady, laser-like stare on the roll. I broke off a small piece and put it on the table in front of her, and she ate it.

A mature woman with harlequin eyeglasses gazed at us in horror.

“That’s offensive,” she said.

I leaned my head back against the banquette and closed my eyes and took in some air, and said nothing. When I opened my eyes, Spike was standing in front of my table. He was a very big bear of a man, in all senses. His hair was short and his shirt was crisp white and his tan slacks had a sharp crease. He wore mahogany loafers with no socks. The loafers had a high shine. He was looking at me hard. Then he pulled a chair away from another table and sat down across from me.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

The mature woman gestured to the hostess, who walked over.

“I’d like to speak with the manager, please,” she said.

The hostess was charmed.

“That would be me,” she said. “I’m Miranda.”

“Well, are you going to do anything about this dog?”

“Well, Rosie is sort of a regular patron,” Miranda said.

“Which I gather means you do not plan to intervene?”

“Perhaps a happy compromise,” Miranda said, “would be to offer you a different table.”

“I prefer to sit where I am,” the lady said. “And I wish to speak with your superior.”

“You certainly may,” Miranda said. “The owner is sitting right next to you. Spike himself.”

The mature woman and her three mature companions all spoke as if they had taken elocution lessons at Radcliffe. And they looked as if they shopped at an Ellen Tracy discount store.

“How do you do,” the mature woman said.

“How do you do?” Spike said.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I saw your sign when I came in. It says No dogs allowed, except seeing-eye.”