Oliver’s blue eyes widen in shock, cradling his shoulders as if to protect himself. “Ma’am! Please. I’m just here to visit my friend Jerry. We were roommates in college.” He turns back to the dog. “Jer, do you even know this woman?” I’m pretty sure dogs can’t roll their eyes. But if they could, Jerry definitely just did.
“Very funny,” I say. “What are you really doing here?”
Oliver grins. “Well, obviously I’ve come to take you both on an adventure.”
I open my mouth, ready to protest—I am in bare feet, after all—before realizing that an adventure is exactly what I need.
“I’m only doing it for Jerry,” I say. “He needs to have some fun.” We turn to find Jerry lying on his side on the brick sidewalk, while a little girl with a butterfly balloon rubs his belly.
“Poor Jerry,” Oliver says, shaking his head. “His life is so hard.” Then he crouches down with his hands on his knees and says to my dog, “How do you feel about boats?”
Of all the wonderful books that exist about the city of Boston, Make Way for Ducklings is by far the best. The story is about a mother duck who gives birth to her babies on a small island in the middle of the Charles River, and must find a way to get them back to the pond at the Public Garden. So she marches them through town in a little row, and the whole city stops to “make way,” until they safely plop their fuzzy bottoms into the water, and all is right with the world.
In the Public Garden, which is right across the street from our house, there are also swan boat rides. For three dollars you can climb aboard what basically looks like two green canoes welded together under six rows of wooden benches, followed closely by a giant swan sculpture, behind which sits your tour guide. Then you are pedaled around the pond, which has to be no more than half a mile in length, for fifteen uneventful minutes, and get off again.
“Isn’t this kind of a tourist attraction?” I ask Oliver as we wait in line for a ride.
“Aren’t you still kind of a tourist?” Oliver responds.
“I resent that,” I say. “And so does Jerry.”
Oliver doesn’t answer, he just hands me an envelope. “Here, hold this,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Do-it A-lice,” he singsongs nervously while eyeing the ticket taker, and for some ridiculous reason I obey.
“Oliver!” The ticket taker gives him a big hug when it’s our turn. “We miss you around here. Are you coming back next summer? You were such a hit with the guests.”
“How could I not, Sam?” Oliver says. “Best job I’ve ever had.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure it’s the only job you’ve ever had, but I’ll take the compliment. Unfortunately, what I cannot take is this guy.” He points at Jerry, who is gently sniffing the back of a woman’s calf in front of us in line, like she is an expensive piece of cheese. “You know the rules, no dogs unless they are a service dog.”
Oliver gives an overexaggerated sigh. “Sam, what do you think, I just forgot everything I learned last summer? Jerry is an emotional support animal. He belongs to my friend Alice. She even has a letter from her therapist—don’t you, Alice?”
Suddenly I understand the envelope. And I want to murder him.
Sam takes the letter from me and scrutinizes it, then glances sidelong at Oliver. “He doesn’t seem like much support,” he says.
We look over and see that a fat brown duck has swum up to the dock and Jerry is leaning toward it, right out over the water, emitting a low growl. The leash is the only thing keeping him upright.
“He’s both an emotional support animal and a security dog,” Oliver says quickly.
Sam sighs.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, very aware of the fact that Oliver has put his arm around the back of my chair, as Jerry lies down below our seat with a grunt. “And wrong, on so many levels.”
“But isn’t it fun?” Oliver winks, and stretches out his legs in front of us. He belongs on a beach in Malibu, not a boat with a giant fake swan on it. I can’t help but consider all the hearts he would break if he weren’t always acting like the Energizer Bunny. “Did you know swans mate for life?” he asks, wiggling his brows.
I roll my eyes.
“So, where were you on Wednesday?” Oliver asks. “I looked for you after Terrarium Club, but Jeremiah said you ran off. I thought we were going to that old record store in Harvard Square I told you about.”
I lean forward and place my forehead in my hand. “I completely forgot,” I say. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“I’ll be fine.” Oliver waves a hand dismissively. “It’s Sally who is heartbroken.”
“Sally?” I ask, wracking my brain. I don’t remember meeting anyone at school with that name.
“Sally the Segway. Don’t tell her I told you, but she sort of had a crush on Frank . . . I think she just felt jilted is all. They lock up together one time at a bike rack and he never calls her again? Real classy, Frank.”
I can’t help but snort in response. We’ve just made our way under the small pedestrian bridge that crosses the pond, and a little girl in a green wool coat waves to us. We wave back.