The Guy Not Taken (27 page)

“Okay,” Doug said, “so I’ll need your address now.”

“Twelve Sandpiper Drive,” the boy said.

Doug fumbled for a pen in the dark and scribbled the address on the bottom of the crossword puzzle he’d been working on before he’d finally fallen asleep.

Joe hesitated. “With my prize . . . can you mail it to me?”

“Sure!” Doug figured that he could download the Quickie logo and print it on stationery and an envelope, no problem. He’d buy one of those Visa or Amex gift cards, load it with a hundred bucks, and stick it in the mail, along with the oranges.

“And it’ll come to me, right? Not my mom. Because I’m allowed to listen to the show, but my mom said no calling. I’m supposed to just stay in bed and listen.”

“So you want it to be a secret?”

“A surprise,” the boy corrected. “Is the hundred dollars regular money, or a check?”

“A check card,” said Doug. “You can spend it just like regular cash.” Then, without even knowing he was going to, he said, “You know what? Maybe I could drop everything off at your house.” It would be easy, Doug figured. He could buy the oranges, get the check card, make a kid happy. Make somebody happy, for a change.

The boy sounded pleased already. “I can buy my mom a birthday present,” he said. “A really good one.”

“Sure,” Doug said, feeling something in his chest ache. He’d shopped for birthday presents for Carrie, with the girls. He would take them to the mall and give them each twenty dollars to spend, and follow them around, fingering the sleeves of sweaters, nodding approval at calendars with puppies for every month or ceramic clown figurines.

“I can drop it by tomorrow afternoon,” Doug said.

“That’d be good,” said Joe. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you then,” said Doug.

•   •   •

For the first six months after Carrie had left him, Doug would wake up every morning reaching for her. When his hands found the stretch of sheet she had inhabited, cool and blank, the knowledge of what had happened—that she was gone, that he
was now reduced to seeing his daughters on weekends and every other Wednesday—would hit him like a hammer, cracking him open again, and he’d have to sit on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands for a few minutes before he could gain his feet, turn off the alarm clock, start his day.

Time didn’t so much heal his wound as cauterize it. Instead of feeling pain, he felt nothing. It was progress, he supposed, to feel as if love were a rumor from a distant planet and that life itself was like a party taking place in another room.

He got by. He was an actuary at a big firm downtown, and he went to work on weekday mornings, doing his job, paying his bills. He called his daughters every night and took them to the movies or the museum on Saturdays and he had, after a few weeks of trial and error, figured out how to cook all his meals on his George Foreman Grill. He’d spray it with Pam and fry eggs in the morning; spray it again and cook a salmon filet for lunch; spray it a third time and grill a burger or a steak for dinner. He’d demonstrated one Saturday for Sarah and Alicia, cooking them cheese omelets for brunch and Texas toast and ribeye steaks for dinner. “Good, right?” he’d asked, smiling across the table. Sarah had just shrugged, and Alicia, who he suspected was wearing eye shadow even though he thought he’d convinced Carrie that fourteen was too young, turned away from him to stare out the window, down the driveway where he’d taught her to ride a two-wheeler, and said, “Everything tastes like everything else.”

There were advantages to living alone. The house looked better than it ever had. No more purses and backpacks spilling their contents by the door, no more of Carrie’s shoes strewn on the floor wherever she’d kicked them off, no more straightening iron left plugged in beside the girls’ bathroom sink, no matter how many times he’d patiently told his daughters that it was a
fire hazard. He recycled the newspapers and his rinsed tin cans, mowed the lawn, changed the oil in the car, and separated Carrie’s mail into neat stacks that he forwarded to her at the end of every week, along with notes that he labored over late into the night.
I am not sure what you want in a husband,
the most recent one had said.
I’m not sure you know, either. But whatever it is, whatever you need me to do or be, I will do it. I will try.

Doug knew the way the world must see him—a tall man, round-shouldered and old for his years, given to frowning and plodding, so emotionally stunted he’d confuse stubbornness with love. “Even your name,” Carrie had said to him—yelled at him—before she’d left. “Even your name’s boring! Doug. As in slug.” He’d held her shoulders until her hysterical laughter had dissolved into sobs. Later he’d said, “I can’t help what I’m named,” but she was asleep by then. Two weeks later she’d taken the girls, her clothes, the girls’ clothes, the dog and the guinea pigs, and, inexplicably, the popcorn maker, and moved back in with her mother. Since then, he didn’t think anyone had laughed in the house. Not even the kind of laughter that turned into tears.

As promised, Joe Stern was outside the white Cape Cod house at the end of a cul-de-sac on Sandpiper Drive. There was a basketball hoop in the driveway, and a basketball at the boy’s feet. Doug could see that he was tall, and that he was going to be handsome when he finished growing. He had thick brown hair and a serious, reflective face that made him look older than ten.

Doug felt the boy’s gaze settle over him as he unfolded himself from the car and got the oranges out of the trunk, touching their thin skins through the netting of the bag, smelling their perfume. In his pocket was the check card in an envelope with a hijacked Quickie 98 logo on the front.

“Hello,” he called, advancing up the driveway. “I’m Doug Fried from Quickie 98.”

The boy looked disappointed. “I thought you’d be in the Prizemobile.”

“Someone else took it today,” Doug said, and set the oranges down on the driveway.

The boy glanced at the fruit, then looked up at Doug respectfully. “Wow,” he said. “You ever play basketball?”

“I’m clumsy,” Doug confessed. “I was always tall enough, but I’m not very fast, and I can’t really dribble.”

“I’ll bet you can palm the ball, though.”

Embarrassed that he had no idea what the boy meant, Doug just nodded. Joe scooped up the ball and tossed it to Doug, who managed to catch it the instant before it whacked into his belly.

Thankfully, the boy seemed not to notice. “Here,” he said, moving his fingers over Doug’s. “Like this.”

The ball felt disturbingly like a human head when Doug clutched it in one hand. He was reminded of his daughters as infants and how scared he’d been to hold them, fearing he’d hurt them, crush their fragile bones.

But Joe seemed pleased. “I can almost palm it myself,” he said. “My dad was tall, and my mom thinks I will be, too, because I have big feet. I had to have new sneakers twice last year,” he added proudly, “and my mom said if they got much bigger, I’d have to order from a special catalog.”

Doug inspected the boy’s feet, which seemed big but not abnormally so.

“I think,” he said, “that your mom was teasing you.”

“Yeah,” the boy said, and sighed. “She always does.”

“Did your father play basketball?”

“Yes,” Joe said. “But he’s in Arizona now.”

“Well, I guess there are basketball hoops there, too.”

“I guess.” The boy sighed again, then bent to pick up the fruit. Holding the bag against his chest, he looked at Doug. “Do you need to see something that proves who I am? I’ve got a library card with my name on it. . . .”

“No,” Doug said. “I believe you.” He reached into his pocket. “This is for you, too,” he said, and handed him the envelope. Joe peeked inside, folded the envelope, and slipped it into his front pocket.

“Be careful with that,” Doug said. “That’s a lot of money.” He could hear the phantom complaints of his daughters in his ears.
Da-ad! Stop worrying! We’ll be careful!

Joe’s eyes were shining. “I’m going to get my mom this perfume she wants,” he said. “She tries it on every time we go to the mall, but it’s eighty dollars for just a little tiny bottle, so she never buys it. She’ll be surprised.”

“That’s really nice,” Doug said.

“She’s nice to me, too,” Joe said. He looked at Doug more closely. “So are you a disc jockey?”

Doug shook his head. “I have more of an administrative job.”

“Do you know Dr. Larry?”

“Um, I think he works a different shift.”

The boy was undaunted. “Do you know Daffy Dave?”

“I’ve seen him,” Doug said, amazed at the ease with which the lie slid off his tongue.

Joe frowned. “Is he married? Because he’s always making jokes about his wife, and what a bad cook she is and stuff, but I don’t think he even has one.”

“I don’t know,” Doug said helplessly. “I never asked.”

“Huh,” the boy said. He set the ball down on the driveway and began rolling it back and forth with the tip of his foot. The sack of oranges slumped between them.

Doug cleared his throat. “Well,” he began.

A dog’s bark startled him.

“Harry!” Joe called. “Harry!”

As Doug watched, something that looked like a collection of elderly, dusty gray mopheads strolled out of the garage and came to sniff at his shoes.

“This is Harry,” Joe said, patting him. “He’s a Bouvier poodle mix. A Boodle.”

Doug knelt and scratched the dog’s frizzy head. The dog wagged his tail vigorously, then collapsed onto his back, presenting his belly.

“He likes you,” Joe said.

“I like him,” said Doug.

“He was my dad’s, but I take care of him now.”

The dog gave a lusty whine and waved his paws in the air. Joe laughed. “He’s a good pet but a bad guard dog. Do you have a dog?”

“No,” Doug said, leaving off the “not anymore.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“Two girls. One’s twelve and one’s fourteen.”

Joe looked impressed. “Big kids,” he said. “Did they go to Michaelman Elementary?”

Doug nodded.

“Did you ever go to fathers’ day at their school?”

Doug nodded again. “They have a breakfast, right?”

Joe nodded unhappily. “Pancakes and strawberry syrup. First the dads tell about their jobs, and then you get the pancakes.” He knelt beside the dog and picked up the basketball again.

Doug bit his lip. Harry rolled over and started nosing at the oranges.

“I think he wants one,” Doug said.

“He likes people food,” Joe said, and smiled faintly. “He thinks he’s human.”

Doug reached for the bag. “We could try one, to see if he likes it.”

Joe shifted uneasily. “He only eats out of his food dish, and I’m not supposed to invite anyone inside.”

“Oh, I understand,” Doug said, feeling both disappointment and relief. This solemn child pulled at his heart, and if he went inside, who knew what he’d find himself saying, or offering to do? “That’s okay. I really should be going.”

“Do you have other prizes to deliver?”

Doug shook his head. “No. You’re my only winner today.”

But it seemed Joe wasn’t ready for him to leave yet.

“Maybe if we peel one and give it to him here . . .”

They had worked an orange out of the bag and were in the process of peeling it when a car pulled into the driveway.

“Oh, no,” Joe breathed. “Mom.”

•   •   •

The woman who climbed out of the battered silver car had Joe’s brown hair, but none of his height and none of his solemnity. Her face was round and full and seemed made for laughing, even though her eyes looked tired. Her hair fell in tangled curls that had been gathered into a ponytail with a bright silk scarf.

“Joey? Who’s this?”

“What’s your name again?” Joe whispered. Doug stepped forward, feeling guilty already, as the woman’s frown deepened. “I’m Doug Fried.”

“And what are you doing here?” Her tone was neutral, but Doug saw that she had pulled her purse in front of her body like a shield.

“I work at Quickie 98,” he said. “Your son was our lucky caller last night, and I was just dropping off his prize.”

She glanced briefly at the oranges, then looked at him carefully, apparently searching his face for signs of madness or criminal tendencies. “Joe,” she said finally. “What have I told you about strangers?”

“He’s not in the house,” the boy protested. “He’s out here in the driveway, and Harry’s here, too.”

“Oh, of course. The dog will keep you safe,” she said, and turned back to Doug, who was surreptitiously taking in the shape of her face, her sturdy-looking hands.

“What radio station did you say?” she demanded.

“Quickie 98,” Doug repeated. “All hits, all the time.”

She wasn’t amused. “Do you have some identification?”

“I can’t believe this,” Joe said, spreading his arms wide in a parody of indignation. “Of course he’s from the radio. Why else would he come all the way out here to bring me oranges?”

Doug fumbled through his wallet. “I left my ID back at the station, but this will at least tell you who I am,” he said, and handed her his driver’s license.

She squinted first at the license, then at him. “You don’t have a business card?”

He made a show of searching his wallet before shaking his head. “Left them back at the station, too, I guess.”

She looked down at the license. “Are you really six-foot-five?”

“Last time I checked.”

“He can palm the ball,” Joe said.

“Your hero,” she said, and tilted her head to include Doug in a look that wasn’t quite friendly, but was, at least, less hostile than the one she’d given him when she first pulled up. “I’m Shelly Stern.”

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry,” she said, and settled
herself against the side of the car. “It’s just that this is the first year Joe’s not coming home to a babysitter, and I—”

“—worry about him,” Joe finished, and rolled his eyes.

“Smarty,” said Shelly.

“She thinks I’ll burn the house down,” Joe said. Without missing a beat, he turned to his mother. “Can we have pizza?”

“No,” she said, and shook her head, loosing more curls from the ponytail.