“Our Gang?” I asked, kneeling down to pet Joe. With one look at that big grin, I was in love. And as Lou told me more and more about his organization, I became more and more sure that it was something I wanted to become involved in. He operated a shelter in Long Beach for rescued and abandoned pit bulls. Think Cesar Millan, with less sssssht. Some of the dogs were rescued from fighting rings, and the more he told me, the more my heart broke. He used the name Our Gang to remind people that the dog from The Little Rascals was a pit bull. The breed’s more recent history is all anyone ever remembered, either forgetting or never knowing that they were even used as baby-sitters a hundred years ago—something that I admit blew my mind.
I spent the next hour asking Lou everything I could think of about Our Gang, while Sparkle and Joe napped peacefully at our ankles. And I went straight home that night to tell my mother all about the new charity I wanted to support.
My mother had other ideas. She always has lots of ideas, as you can imagine. Is she a snob? If you consider a snob to be a blue-haired old woman who eats crustless cucumber sandwiches and complains about how hard it is to find good help, then no, she isn’t a snob. But she does have very particular ideas about everything and everyone, and into that preordained, predestined, predetermined box we all must go. And for her daughter, who she expected to ride her tiara straight into a wealthy marriage, how things appeared was key. Appearances are everything, didn’t you know?
So her daughter, she of the crown and sash, going to work with rescued pit bulls? Not. Going. To fly.
I’d tried to explain to Lou as best as I could why I couldn’t work with his organization, and he told me he understood. All too well. But we bumped into each other occasionally when I was out with a therapy dog, and we emailed, and I followed his organization on Facebook. And whenever I clicked on one of those gorgeous faces, usually with that telltale pit bull grin, I’d think about what a wonderful opportunity it would be to work with dogs like that.
So when I saw Lou’s name in my in-box now, it made me smile. And when the subject line read “Want to work for Our Gang North?” it made me sit up straight and forget all about calling Charles.
So the first important phone call I made was to Lou Fiorello. And after hanging up, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had options.
Scratch that. Options that I’d found on my own.
Emboldened, I decided to call my mother next. I sat back in the chair, drumming a pencil nervously on the legal pad I’d made notes all over during my call with Lou. After several rings, she answered. Had she deliberately let the phone ring? I’d seen her do that to other people. “Always keep people wanting a little more, Chloe. Don’t be rude, but don’t be too eager either.” It had never had occurred to me to think she’d employed this technique on her own daughter.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mom,” I said, and she waited a beat.
“Oh, hello, Chloe dear,” she replied, managing to sound unconcerned and somewhat surprised I’d called. She knew it was me; she had caller ID right there on the phone—but no matter. I’d be cool as well.
“I’d like to come by the house to talk to you, if that’s okay.”
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea. Will it be soon? I’ll put on some tea.”
“I can come now. I’ll just get changed and be right over.”
“Still in your pajamas?”
Only four words, and yet oh so much judgment. I sidestepped the obvious trap. “I’ll be there in twenty,” I replied, clenching my hands.
“I’ll be here,” she said.
“Oh, and Mother?”
“Hmm?”
“If I see his car in the driveway, I’m turning around.”
Silence. Sigh. And then finally, “I’ll see you in twenty.”
I’d won nothing in actuality. But I unclenched my hands, and that was good. I then texted Charles:
Hi.
He responded right away:
Hi.
I wasn’t a robot. I could feel a bit of remorse beginning to poke through.
I’d like to call you later, talk about some things?
He didn’t respond right away, so I went to get changed. I was, in fact, still in my pajamas. But as I pushed my head through a San Diego State sweatshirt of my dad’s, I heard my phone beep.
Talk about some things? I’ll say we need to talk about some things. I’ll come by at 5 and pick you up.
I didn’t want to see him. Not yet.
No, no that’s not a good idea. I need some more time. I’ll call you, let’s start there.
Whatever you say . . .
I texted him bye, but for the first time, didn’t add XOXO.
I pulled on some sweatpants and went downstairs. “I’m heading over to Mom’s to talk; you need anything while I’m out?” I asked my father, who was reading another newspaper. Each Sunday he had the New York Times, the LA Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the Wall Street Journal delivered. He liked to “cover his bases.” What he covered were his fingerprints with ink, as well as doorjambs and countertops.
“You want me to go with you?” he asked. “Nice outfit, by the way.”
“Thanks. If I hold up the pants on the side I should be able to keep them on,” I laughed. “And no, I’m good to go solo. If you hear a sonic boom coming from her side of town, you’ll know how it’s going.”
“I’m familiar with that boom,” he replied, one corner of his mouth turning up.
So I headed out the front door to explain to my mother why I’d canceled her perfect wedding. Hopefully I’d be able to think up a good reason on the way over.