The Dog Park

After a moment, Sebastian stood, too. He walked to the end of the folding table and fingered the various collars, leashes, embellishments.

He held up a pink string of flowers that would be placed on a white collar for a teacup poodle. “Promise me,” he said, “that you won’t put this on Baxy’s collar.”

“I promise.”

“So you like doing this?” Sebastian gestured with his hand at the dog accoutrements across the table.

“I don’t like it,” I said.

He looked at me, raised his eyebrows.

“I love it.”

Sebastian sighed. “I thought you were going to say that.”

“Why the disappointment?”

He breathed out heavily—not as weary as his sigh, but close.

“Seriously, Sebastian, what’s your problem with this?”

He shook his head.

“Really,” I said, “what is it?”

“No problem,” he said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I’m going to call Paul, the producer, and I’m going to tell him to run the show.”

10 (#ulink_606b35a7-22d7-59a6-bda8-81b1e7445ca6)

Later I would think about how my showing Sebastian my dogwear business convinced him to call his friend the news producer. Therefore, I realized, I had essentially started my own demise—the outing of the past Jess behind the present one.

But it wasn’t that first national news piece that did it. Destruction takes a little while.

The night Baxter was on the national news, a few days after the phone call, Sebastian dropped Baxter off because I needed him to try on dogwear.

“I’ll get him tomorrow afternoon,” Sebastian said.

“Sure. Thanks for doing this.”

“Sure,” he echoed.

Awkward silence seemed to course through the kitchen.

“So Baxter is on the news tonight.” I figured he’d remember, but I wanted to see his reaction.

His face was neutral. “Yeah. I’m going to be at my mom’s.”

“Tell her hi.”

Sebastian nodded.

I looked at my watch. “Damn, it’s on soon.”

He glanced at his phone then. “Shit.” He sighed. “My mom has all her sisters coming over.” Sebastian loved his four aunts, but they could be a lot to take when they were all together.

“That’ll be fun,” I said.

He groaned. “I’m so tired from writing all day. I just don’t know if I can handle the coven.” His mom had the maiden name of Carey, so the sisters called themselves Carey’s Coven.

“You can watch it here,” I said.

Pause. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And so Sebastian and I watched the news piece together at my place, the place that had once been ours.

The last time we’d shared an evening in the condo, or at least attempted to share, was the night we got divorced. Neither of us wanted to be alone, but we didn’t want to be with anyone else, either. Our attorney had said it would be a simple matter. You’ll just step up to the bench and answer, “Yes.”

But the lawyer hadn’t told us, or maybe he hadn’t understood, how painful it was to hear a judge, in a bored tone, say, The spouses’ irreconcilable differences have caused an irretrievable breakdown of their marriage.

From the corner of my eye I’d seen something like a wince from Sebastian when the judge had said that. I’d looked over and saw he was squeezing his eyes shut. Sebastian, the man who didn’t close his eyes to combat and war and gruesome situations, had clamped his eyes shut, as if to ward off tears or pain.

But the anguish had kept coming as the judge had intoned, The court determines that efforts at reconciliation have failed.

I’d closed my eyes then, too, trying to stop the questions in my own voice streaming through my head—Did I make the best effort possible? Could we put it back together? Did we fail? Did I fail?

We’d both been shocked at how simple the proceedings ended up being, when nothing about our marriage had been simple.

But that night when Baxter was on the news, everything was just...lighter. Sebastian’s latest article, a piece on militias in Libya, had just released, and the story garnered raves and much attention, making him relaxed, open. And I was certainly in a much better mood than the night we got divorced. And then there was our little boy—our Baxy—on TV, bounding across a street and saving a little girl in a yellow dress.

Clara’s mom was interviewed, holding Clara on her lap.

“Oh, watch this,” I said, nudging Sebastian on the couch next to me. I lifted one of Baxter’s paws and pointed it at the TV. “Watch, Baxy. They’re talking about you.”

As usual, Baxter registered little through the television.

The correspondent had arranged, toward the end of Clara’s interview, for Baxter to surprise her and her mom. When the door opened and Baxter bounded through it to Clara, she shrieked happily and laughed with delight, wrapping her arms around Baxy. I couldn’t imagine any viewer being unmoved. “Look at you, good dog!” Sebastian said, as Baxter bounced from my lap to his, panting with apparent delight at his parents sitting next to each other, happy.

“And hey, Jess, there you are,” Sebastian said. He looked at me. “You didn’t tell me they interviewed you.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d like it.”

“As long as they don’t ask to interview me.”

He looked back at the TV, listening to the correspondent’s voice-over. Jessica Champlin, Baxter’s owner, was surprised the star-studded collar she created for her dog would get such attention.

Then my voice on TV saying, “I’ve gotten orders from around the country for the collars and leashes.”