Ms. Taken Identity (31 page)

I prefer to be outside, on the course, but I do hang around inside at times with my father, mostly to humor him. He likes
to show me how the books work—payroll, insurance, equipment fees, beer and concessions, even the damn electric and water bills—and
he’s so earnest when he does it that I don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s not interesting to me. I’m not a numbers
or money guy. And speaking of that, it’s pretty clear this isn’t a huge moneymaker. He does okay, but he’s never going to
be a gazillionaire off his par three course. Of course, that’s not why he does it.

I still haven’t figured out what kind of a dog Bo is, in terms of his breed, but at least I do know what he was born to do:
live on a golf course. I bring him with me every time I go and he loves it. So much, in fact, that I feel bad bringing him
back to the apartment. At the course, he has fresh air and geese to chase and warm grass to lie on, a best buddy in Shep,
and golfers who scruff him under the chin; at the apartment he has hardwood floors, and me. But he seems happy enough just
to have a home, and he treats me like I’m the greatest person on the face of the earth. Which, I have to admit, I like.

My mother and I get together the first weekend in June to celebrate the end of her school year and mine. When I get back to
the apartment, there’s a box for me on the doorstep. It’s a box of books.
Catwalk Mama
books. I’m holding
my
book.

“I persuaded them to send the first batch your way, so you could get them right to Bradley,” Katharine practically squeals
when I get her on the phone. “The rest ship out next week, all over the country.”

“To stores?”

“To stores, Mitch. That’s where they sell them. And the publicity machine’s already cranking into overdrive. They’ve had ads
in
USA Today
and
People
. I’ve even shuffled the publicity rounds for my own material to coincide with the release, so I’ll make sure
Catwalk Mama
gets plenty of attention. Which gives me a thought…” Even through the phone, I can hear her mind do something of a double
take. “What about you, Mitch?”

“What about me
what
?”

“How about we team up, you make a few appearances with me.”

Oh Christ
. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“I think it’s a
great
idea. Think about the angle. You come on with me, explain how we met at the coffee shop, how you told me about your cousin.
People will eat it up.”

I panic for a moment, then several, before a lightbulb flips on in my brain. “But then they’ll know it’s my cousin,” I point
out triumphantly, relieved to find a flaw in her plan. “Her anonymity would be shot.”

She barely slows down. “Then we won’t say she’s your cousin. We’ll say she’s a friend. An
acquaintance
. Which means Bradley’s off the hook.”

And I’m back on it, right through my jugular vein. “I just don’t know…”

“Come on, Mitch. This is nuts. Don’t make me beg.” She says it with half a laugh, but there’s more than a trace of exasperation
in her voice. “Besides, this isn’t about me. It’s about Bradley and her book and the chance to change her life. Do it for
her, why don’t you.”

Do it for
her
. Why don’t you.

And just like that, the curtain falls and my eyes snap open and I get a glimpse into what’s been fueling Katharine’s fervor
to get Bradley published these last few months: that, yeah, maybe she likes me and enjoys the hanky-panky and wouldn’t mind
more, but this has always been about Bradley and her book. Because she sees what she once was in Bradley and wants to make
her dreams come true. My made-up cousin means that much to her. It almost chokes me up.

“Okay, how about we make a deal,” Katharine continues. “I have
Regis and Kelly
at the end of the month. If
Catwalk Mama
is in the top five, you come on with me, just for a few minutes.”

“In the top five what?”

“Bestsellers.”

“
Times
bestsellers?”

“The one and only.”

Jesus. “If
Catwalk Mama
is in the top five of the
New York Times’
bestsellers, then yes, I’ll come on
Regis and Kelly
with you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good. See you in a few weeks.”

After we hang up, I sit down with a beer and a copy of my book and page through it. After all those months of seeing it as
scribbled notes in a notebook, and blue-bordered chunks of text in a Microsoft document called “catWmama,” here it is: a hardback
book, with crackly spine and fancy typeface and new paper smell. I run my hands over the glossy cover, read the quotes on
the back jacket, trace my finger over both the American and Canadian prices. I show it to Bo and he sniffs it, and when I
tell him that’s my ISBN, the only book that will ever have those digits, he cocks his head and gives his tail a little thump
on the floor, because I think he gets it. The funny thing is, I could get hit by a car tonight and die, and no one would ever
know I’d written it, because Bo wouldn’t tell; and when they came to clean out my apartment, they’d see the box of
Catwalk Mama
books by Bradley Gallagher and scratch their heads and say, “Why the hell does he have those?” Maybe I should write a note
and tape it to the mirror in my bathroom, or leave it in my sock drawer, explaining everything. Of course, I could also just
trust that Bradley and Marie would come out of the woodwork and clear things up, cement my posthumous legacy.

Then again, I should probably just write that note.

Scott wants to do Father’s Day at his house, have our dad and his father-in-law over for a barbecue. That’s fine with me,
since he actually has a tradition with Dad for this day. I have no tradition, other than sometimes picking up the phone, sometimes
dialing it, and sometimes speaking to him. But I insist that the day before, we head down to a Cardinals game, the three of
us, along with Nathan and Jessica and Kyle.

It’s one of those June St. Louis afternoons that’s warm for the season (technically we’re still in spring, but tell that to
the humidity). Nathan and Kyle have brought gloves in hopes of snaring a foul ball, and Jessica has brought a stuffed Dalmatian
named Raz, which offers no help in snaring a foul ball, but she didn’t want to be empty-handed. We’ve also brought a cooler
with sodas and goodies to munch on. The game flies by, and Nathan keeps score on the scorecard, trying to explain to Kyle
how it’s done, and Scott documents a little bit of everything with his digital camera.

During the seventh-inning stretch, after I’ve sung along with everyone else about buying peanuts and Cracker Jacks and rooting
for the home team, I head to the concession stand. I’ve got thirty bucks burning a hole in my pocket, so I grab beers for
the three adults. I’m not happy with the way they’re situated in the little cardboard carrying tray, and I’m standing next
to the counter trying to adjust them when I hear someone call out my name.

“Yo, Mitch.”

I turn. It’s Molly.

“Hey there,” I say, and quickly lick spilled beer off my hand so I can shake hers, but she’s a little quicker on the draw
and gives me a hug. It’s one of those press-her-body-in kind and I can feel her legs against mine.

“So, what’s going on?” I ask when we’ve separated.

“Nothing much. Just watching the game, same as you, I imagine.”

Truth be told, at that very moment I’m having difficulty remembering why it is I
am
here, because she’s wearing a cottony summer dress—sophisticated, a little sheer—with flip-flops and a golden tan.

“Yep. Watching the game. You bet.” I clear my throat. “Are you here with Pete?”

Her face turns slightly gloomy. “Nah. With some other friends. Pete and I broke up a few months ago.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I’m sorry to hear it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, thanks. We’re still good friends, though. We talk a lot. Or debate. Or argue. Whatever it is we do.”

She tells me about her semester, which was good, even though
Cosmo
decided to pass on the article after all, but no big deal, since she’s going to spend the next year abroad, in London, studying
theater.

“I think I found my niche,” she says. “Flair for the dramatic and all.”

“You’ll be great.” There’s a glow about her, and it’s not just the tan, and I have a feeling she won’t be throwing herself
off the side of Mount Everest anytime soon.

We talk about my dissertation—things humming along nicely on that front—then say our goodbyes. I gather up my tray of beers.

“Hey, Mitch,” she calls over, still hanging around. “Are you on campus this summer?”

I shrug. “Sometimes. I’m not teaching, but I make it out there every now and then.”

“Same office?”

“Yep.”

“Then maybe I could stop by sometime and we could head over to the café for lunch.”

Two guys around my age are standing off to the side, ogling her, and apparently following enough of the conversation to realize
she’s basically asking me out. That would explain why they both have that dropped-jaw, gimme-a-break, I-did-not-just-hear-that
look plastered to their faces. Suddenly that Joe Jackson song “Is She Really Going Out with Him?” is running through my head.

“Yeah. Sure. We could do that.”

“Great,” she says, and gives me a smile that will last me all day.

The rest of the game breezes by. Neither Nathan nor Kyle snags a foul ball and the Cards come up short, but it’s tough for
any of us to be very disappointed, since we’ve all had such a great time. Outside the stadium, we snap one last set of pictures
in front of the statue of Stan Musial. Scott wants to get my dad and me and him striking the same pose we did when we were
kids and Dad brought us here—bat in hands, poised for the swing, the way Stan is—so Nathan snaps that one. There’s brief talk
of heading out for dinner, but we’re all still stuffed from the game, especially my father, whose stomach is bothering him
from a hotdog that went down the wrong way, and plus he’s a little tired, so we nix those plans. Besides, we’ll be spending
tomorrow together.

Back at the apartment, I take Bo for a walk, grab a late dinner at Colchester’s, then the two of us get cozy on the sofa and
watch TV. But I keep thinking about Molly, how good she looked and healthy she seemed, trying to convince myself that I didn’t
just say yes to lunch with her to impress those guys at the game, that we could actually have some sort of relationship outside
the classroom, though not
that
type of relationship, because eighteen is still eighteen, for chrissakes; and all of it’s still so much on my mind that when
the phone rings at 2:48 and wakes me up, my groggy-minded knee-jerk reaction is that it’s her, calling to say she doesn’t
want to wait until summer to have lunch, she wants to make plans now, since she has some questions about London or Shakespeare
or the theater, and she knows I’d be a font of information. But it’s not Molly at all. It’s Leah. She’s at the hospital and
sobbing. My father is dead.

When I was a kid, my dad had a habit of taking a nap when he got home from work, and I had a habit of sneaking in to watch
him sleep. He’d be flopped on his back, longways on the bed, one arm draped over his eyes, the other across his stomach. Sometimes
he left his watch on, and I’d try to get close enough to read the numbers; other times I’d bring in one of my baseball cards
and tickle the hair on his arms, till he tried to brush the sensation away. When I felt most daring, I’d try to balance a
marble on his chest and see how long it’d stay, which usually wasn’t very long, since he’d shift or stir or let out a grizzled
snore or just take one of those deep-sleep breaths, and the marble went tumbling off.

I’m thinking of that marble as I stand with Scott and Leah at the hospital and we stare at my father’s body. He looks exactly
the same as he did a few hours ago, same wrinkles and age spots and hair, even a patch of sunburned skin on the tip of his
nose, and I keep expecting a little movement, a breath, something to indicate that he’s alive, that he’s just taking a nap,
that he’s managed to hold his breath for a long time, and at any moment his eyelids will flutter, or his lips will part, or
his throat will swallow, or his fingers will twitch, or his leg will shake out. But none of it happens, and it’s not going
to happen, not even if we stay here till dawn. And it’s all starting to sink in that if I placed that marble on his chest
now, it would stay there till the end of time.

I’m out at the golf course just before seven, waiting for Kip. I give him the news and he can’t believe it, and he just keeps
shaking his head and crying and asking if there’s anything he can do. I tell him he can call the others, break the news to
them, and let them know the course will be closed for a few days. I consider putting up a sign on the front door of the clubhouse—“Course
closed till further notice”—and leaving, but the people who know my dad deserve better, so I stick around and tell them in
person.

Over the next two days, I stay in touch with Leah and offer to help her or Nathan or Jessica in any way I can, but she already
has a whole army of family and friends providing meals and comfort, and it’s not like we’re the closest people anyway, so
I stay in the background. Plus, my dad already took care of all the funeral arrangements after the first heart attack.

On Wednesday we meet at the cemetery for the service. It’s another hot day, so there’s a tent up, but it’s not big enough
by far, and people spill out the back and around on both sides. The immediate family sits in the front row, and I’m next to
Scott, on the end. Several people get up and say a few words about my father, including Scott, and it’s nice to hear that
people thought so highly of him—and loved him, I’d have to say—though I don’t get up and speak, because what would I say:
that I thought the world of him for the first ten years, hated him for the next eighteen, and started to like him again these
past few months. No one needs to hear that, and I don’t want to pretend it was any other way. He and I knew what it was, and
where we were, and how far we’d gotten, and that’s what matters.