Em barked a laugh. “I gather the date didn’t go well.”
Finn said, “You gather right. Batshit gave the dude a paws-down.”
“Oooh, ugly.” Em grinned. “I hate it when that happens.”
Finn patted his lap and Bat jumped into it. “I really hope you can go to the dog show with me. It’s four days, but you wouldn’t have to stay the whole time.”
Em said, “Unless he’s showing Bat.” Their shared smile was conspiratorial. “Then he’d have to be there, I bet.”
They both laughed like loons and Jericho stuck out his tongue at them, but his brain was already whirring. Suddenly, he looked up. “I forgot to ask when the show’s happening.”
Finn chuckled. “Did I forget to say? Next weekend.”
“A week?” Jericho about swallowed his teeth.
Em grinned. Actually, four days, the show starts on Thursday.”
Jericho opened his mouth.
Batshit said, “Woof.”
“I think she just agreed.” Finn laughed. Evil man.
Still, by the time he left an hour later, with another glass of wine and some good cheese puffs under his belt, he’d gone into full-on consideration mode. It had to be so hard to be a dog handler, but Batshit knew what she was doing. Maybe she could train him. Still, he’d have to at least look like a handler, or he’d embarrass Finn, himself, and most of all, Batshit.
Even his mother noticed Jericho was distracted. After he’d gotten home, Milly left, and he sat with his mom and Killer, staring at the TV for a couple hours, then went in and made roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and well-buttered broccoli with Killer dancing around the slate floor anxiously. Before Jericho served broccoli, he added cheese. Anything to get his mother to eat a vegetable.
As they sat at trays in front of the television, not talking, she suddenly said, “What are you thinking about so hard?”
“What? Oh, nothing. Just thinking about my kids. Funny how I miss them in the summer.”
“They’re not your kids, Jericho. They’re someone else’s children. You only teach them. Gay men don’t have children.”
He swallowed hard but said, “Yes, actually they do. A lot of gay men adopt or use surrogates. You know Neil Patrick Harris has two kids. You love him.”
She shrugged. “Well, he’s famous.”
He let a long exhale out through his nose and said, “Did you get the puzzle done?”
She pushed a finger to her lips. “Shh. I’m watching the show.” She stared back at the TV screen as she shoved mashed potatoes into her mouth, and not much else. A few minutes later, she asked, “What’s for dessert?”
He gave her a wheedling smile. “Eat some more chicken and broccoli while I make it. Come on, you know how much we all want you to be healthy and well.”
She adopted her child face. “Oookay.”
He said in a singsongy voice, “I’m watching.”
She took a tiny bite of chicken and chewed it.
“Come on, some green stuff too.” He picked up his fork, speared a bite of broccoli that he’d cooked very soft so she wouldn’t say it was raw, and pushed it toward her lips.
“Mmmf.” She twisted her head away.
“Come on, pretty please. For me. Even Killer wants you to eat it.”
She looked up at him with big eyes, then opened her lips. He inserted the bite, she closed, gave one chew, grimaced, and spat it out into her napkin. “Yuk. That stuff is awful.”
“Have another bite of chicken, okay?” He took the soiled napkin, set it on his tray, and carried it to the kitchen with Killer trotting along. Jericho didn’t need to have children, for fuck sake, he had his mother.
Trying hard not to throw them across the kitchen, he pulled out two small bowls, filled them with vanilla ice cream that was secretly organic, added frozen blueberries and a dash of whipped cream, and set a lemon scone on top.
After clearing his tray, he loaded the dessert on it with spoons and fresh napkins and carried them back to the family room. Of course, she hadn’t eaten any more chicken, but she grabbed toward the ice cream dish. “Gimme.”
He handed her the bowl and spoon. She promptly moved the berries aside and scooped up the ice cream and whipped cream avidly, not seeming to be able to get it into her mouth fast enough.
He carried her tray into the kitchen, cut up the extra meat for Killer, and put it in his dish. It was gone before Jericho could give the dog new water. Jericho filled the empty dish with dog food, and when he walked back into the family room, his mother had scooted out of her chair and reached for the scone on his dish.” She looked at him with a guilty grin. “You have more, right? I mean they’re so good.”
“You said they were my favorite and you didn’t care about having any.” He knew it was a stupid thing to say. You never said I told you so to Mama.
She looked at him, aghast. “I never said any such thing.” With a sniff, she bit into his scone and stared back at TV.
It took another hour before she fell asleep in her chair and he had to rouse her to get her into her bed. Finally, he climbed the stairs to his room, leaving the door ajar so Killer could traverse back and forth all night between his mom’s bed and Jericho’s. Jericho plopped in his own chair, turned on his little television for background noise, and pulled his computer onto his lap. He typed in dog show handlers.
When Killer came in, carrying his leash and asking for a walk, Jericho had been at the computer for an hour. He hooked the leash on Killer, but his head swam with ideas like show grooming, stacking, gait, appropriate dress for handlers, and a bazillion other things. Who’d have guessed there was so much to know?
Out in the cool night air, Killer made a profession out of sniffing every blade of grass and Jericho didn’t even care. He stared into space. Could I do it? Could I really show a dog? Hell, I’d fall on my face. The funny thing was, though, in the articles by dog handlers, they said handlers weren’t really christened until they’d fallen in the ring. But man, there was so much the dogs had to know. No way I could teach Batshit all that stuff in a few days, so it would depend on what she already knows.
He froze. What do I mean it would depend? Am I really thinking of doing this?
As Killer finally dropped into a serious squat, Jericho dug in his pocket for his poop bag and stared up at their house. No, his mother’s house. Of course, someday it would be Jericho’s, but contrary to her opinion, she wasn’t dying and he didn’t want her to die. No, he was faced more with a question of his living. Was he really going to wait for his mother’s demise to do something—anything in his life? True, he didn’t have a clue what constituted anything, but the fact was, he’d been presented with an opportunity. Bam, right in his lap. Was he going to reject it in favor of more nights in front of the TV with Mama?
He scooped up the pile, walked it to the garbage can, then returned to the house and released Killer to run back to Mama. Jericho climbed the stairs, picked up the laptop, and googled, Training classes for show dog handlers, Corona del Mar, CA.
“Woof.”
“Yeah, I’m with you, Batshit. Woof. What the hell are we doing?”
The GPS said, “Turn left in five-hundred feet and then your destination is ahead on the right.”