Author: Kristan Higgins

“Dad! Come on! I told you he doesn’t like that!” Mark yells, scooping his son into his arms. “Don’t cry, buddy. Grampa was just being an idiot.”

He pushes past Elaina without so much as a glance. She hisses at his back, then cuts her eyes to me. “Come over later. I’m so fricking mad I could spit acid.”

“Sounds like fun,” I answer. “Eight o’clock?”

“Dinner!” Mom barks.

We file into the dining room—Mom, Dad, Jack, Sarah, Lucky, Tara, Elaina, Matt, Trevor and me jammed around the table. Mark, in order to avoid Elaina, announces with great martyrish resignation that he’ll eat in the kitchen and supervise the kids.

Mom leans over and snatches the cover off the platter, unveiling her creation. Calling it dinner would be inaccurate and somehow cruel.

Jack stares at it despondently. “That pot roast will come out of me the same way it goes in,” he announces. “Stringy, gray and tough. And with a great deal of effort.”

“John Michael O’Neill! Shame on you!” Mom sputters as the rest of us try unsuccessfully to hide our laughter.

“Thanks for sharing, Jack,” Sarah says with resigned amusement.

“That was really gross, buddy,” Lucky says. “True, but gross. If it comes out, that is. Last time we ate here, I was bound up for a week. Lamb stew that made my legs hurt. I think I actually bled when—”

“Luke!” Mom barks. Lucky ducks just in time to miss her halfhearted slap.

While I understand that Irish cuisine is very popular right now, Mom’s Irish cooking is more in the potato-famine style. Large hunk of poor quality beef—boil it. Huge pot of grayish potatoes, bought in twenty pounds sacks and stored indefinitely in the cellar—boil them. Carrots? Boil. Turnips? Boil. Green beans. Boil. Gravy? Burn.

“Mmm,” I say brightly. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Kiss-ass,” Matt mumbles next to me.

“Bite me,” I mumble back.

We pretend to eat, shoving food around furtively, occasionally risking a bite of something when we can’t avoid it. I try slipping some meat to Buttercup, who just stares at me dolefully from her pink-rimmed eyes, then lets her head flop back on the floor with a hopeless thump. From the kitchen, we can hear Mark refereeing the kids. “Dylan, stop throwing, buddy. Annie, that’s not cute, hon. Put it back in your mouth. I know, but Grandma made it. Here, Graham, I’ll hold that for you.” He’s trying very hard to sound saintlike. Elaina pretends not to notice. I can’t really blame her.

“Well, this is as good a time as any,” Mom says, putting her fork down. “Listen up, people. I’ve decided to start dating.”

The rest of us freeze, then, as one, look at Dad—except for Elaina, who continues to cut her green beans into tiny molecules that she doesn’t eat.

“What are you talking about?” Dad asks.

My parents got divorced about a year ago. It wasn’t traumatic or angry—more like a game they play with each other. While Dad now has an apartment downtown, things have remained pretty much the same. If the furnace goes out, Mom calls Dad. If the car needs fixing, Mom calls Dad. They eat together a couple of times a week, go to all the grandkid events together, and I’m guessing they still sleep together, though this is not something on which I wish to dwell.

“Dating, Mike. We’re divorced, remember? For a year now. As I said to you on eighteen thousand occasions, I want certain things. Since you have refused to give them to me, I’m moving on.”

So begins their traditional argument. “More wine, anyone?” I ask.

“Yes, please,” comes the chorus.

My parents love each other, but it doesn’t seem like they can live happily together. It’s not easy to be a firefighter’s wife. Every time Dad was late coming home, Mom would slap on the TV and sit, grim-faced, in front of the local channel, waiting to hear news of a fire. And if there was a fire, she’d twist her wedding ring and snap at us kids until Dad came home, sooty and tired and buzzed on adrenaline.

In addition to the terror of losing one’s spouse to a horrible death, there’s the reality of being married to a firefighter. Sure, it’s a heroic job. Yes, the spouses are so proud. You bet, those guys are great. But how many Christmases and Thanksgivings and games and school recitals and concerts and lessons and swim meets and dinners took place without Dad? Dozens. Hundreds. Even when he was home, the scanner was on, or Dad was talking on the phone to one of the guys, or going to a union meeting or organizing a training class. On the rare weekend when Dad didn’t work, he’d be so antsy by the time Sunday afternoon rolled around that he’d go to the firehouse just to check in.

Then, two years ago, Benny Grzowski, relatively new to the department, fell off the roof of a burning building while cutting a ventilation hole and died. He was twenty-five.

There is no event more somber and spectacular than a firefighter’s funeral. The O’Neill clan was there in full, stone-faced (except for me; I was bawling). When we got to the cemetery, we all filed past the headstone, already carved with Benny’s name and years and the traditional inscription. Husband. Father. Firefighter. I remember Mom looking at the headstone after the service. “You’d have to reverse the order for your father,” she muttered, turning away. “Don’t ever marry a man who loves his work more than he loves you, Chastity.”

It was after Benny’s death that Mom started pressuring Dad to retire. She wanted to go on cruises, play bridge, join the Eaton Falls Senior Club, which sponsors trips to the racetrack and casinos, the outlets and Niagara Falls. She asked, waited, demanded, waited, ordered, waited and finally filed for divorce. I guess she thought he’d cave once she divorced him, but she just waited some more.

Looks like the waiting is over. She stares impassively at my father and takes a bite of her stringy meat.

“This is ridiculous!” Dad pronounces. “You’re not dating anyone!”

“Really? Watch me, old man,” she hisses, then turns to me. “Chastity, I heard you telling Tara that you want to meet someone.”

“Thank you, Mom! Okay! Can we change the subject?” I exclaim, my face burning.

“I think we should go in on this together,” she announces brightly. “Double date.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. Matt smirks, and I shoot him the finger.

“You’re not dating,” Dad repeats. “You’re just doing this to piss me off, and it’s working. Enough.”

Mom continues unfazed. “We can register at eHarmony, go to singles dances—”

“You’re not dating!”

“—speed dating. It’ll be fun! Mike, you get no say on this, so shut it.”

Dad’s face is bright red. “You’re. Not. Dating.”

“Mom.” Lucky, the peacekeeping, bomb-detonating middle child, gives it a shot. “Mom, can’t you give Dad another chance?”

“I’ve given your father four ‘another chances,’” she says, glaring at Lucky. “He loves that firehouse more than he loves me.”

“That’s just stupid,” my father barks, wadding up his napkin.

“Yes, it is stupid!” my mother snaps. “That’s my point entirely!”

“You’re an idiot, woman! We’re not discussing this! You’re not dating!” He storms out, stepping over my dog, and slams the back door. A second later, we hear his car start.

Sarah and Tara are staring at each other. As if on cue, they both turn to my mother. “We brought dessert!” they chorus.

“SO, MOM, ARE YOU SERIOUS about this?” I ask later when everyone else has gone. The house is quiet, while outside the birds call to each other as the sun sets over the mountains. My dog’s huge head rests on my mother’s foot as if in solidarity.

She sighs. “I know you love your father best, Chastity—” she begins.

“Untrue,” I respond dutifully.

“—but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life alone like this.”

“He will retire, Mom. He’ll have to. Aren’t there union rules or something? I mean, he’s fifty-nine years old, right?”

“Fifty-eight,” Mom says. “He’ll retire whenever he feels like it, honey. Six years? Seven? Ten? Am I supposed to sit around waiting? For thirty-nine years, I’ve put up with it! It’s my turn to decide a thing or two about our life, and he won’t accept that, and it’s not fair.” She settles back in her chair. “So I’m finding someone else.”

“Don’t you still love him, Mom?”

“Of course I do,” she says. “That’s not the point. It’s that I want someone who will put me first, and honestly, your father has never done that. He wasn’t a bad husband, but he never put me first.” Her tone is that of a professor announcing historical facts. I nod and pick at the sole of my hiking boot. Who knows? Maybe her plan will work and a little jealousy will get Dad’s attention at last. She loves him. She doesn’t want anyone else, not really.

“We’ll have fun, honey,” Mom proclaims. “I’ve already signed us up for singles grocery shopping! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“Um, no,” I answer.

“Oh, come on! You haven’t even tried it yet! It’s fun!”

“Have you gone?” I ask.

“No, but how can singles grocery shopping not be fun?” She continues to describe the anticipatory thrill of examining produce with other mate-seeking individuals. I grimace and let my head fall back against the arm of the chair.

The truth is, I’ll go. I don’t have time to waste, do I? I can feel my ovaries sighing in impatience…We’re still functioning. For now, at least… The blurry memory of the slutty waitress pops up in my mind. I have no desire to watch Trevor rake in the females as I sit around single and childless, staring at my empty ring finger.

And so I make a pact with the devil, or in this case, my mommy. We’ll try it together. Why not? What have I got to lose?

CHAPTER THREE

BECAUSE I’VE BEGUN MY STORY on the night when I was dumped and had a woman hit on me, I might’ve given the impression that I don’t have any male admirers. I do…just not the males I want.

Case in point—Alan of the Gray Tooth, managing editor at Eaton Falls Gazette, where I have just shown up for my first official day of work. Alas, Alan and I are alone in the Gazette “office suite,” which is really just a big room divided into gray burlap cubicles, a conference room and a cramped office for our boss.

“I really hope you’ll like it here,” says Alan (5'8" and this is with chunky-heeled Doc Martens), grinning. Like Judas at the Last Supper, the gray tooth is malignantly out of place, sitting ominously in the middle of an otherwise unremarkable row of normal teeth. I try to look away from it, but it’s weirdly compelling. Alan raises an eyebrow. Eech.

“Sure. Yeah, I’m, uh, I’m sure I will. Thanks.”

“Maybe we can get together for drinks later on at the old watering hole where us journalists like to hang out.”

That should be “where we journalists like to hang out,” Al, old buddy. “I’m…I don’t…” I can’t hear properly. The Tooth has taken control of me.

“Drinks it is, then,” Alan says. “Awesome.”

Jesus. How did that thing get so gray? Doesn’t Alan know his own tooth is rotting away in his mouth? Shouldn’t it be pulled? It certainly should be capped. As Alan talks, the gray tooth blinks darkly, Alan’s narrow lips moving around the words that I’m ignoring, fascinated by the evil power of The Tooth. Like Tolkien’s Ring, it has a hypnotic, undeniable power. One tooth to rule them, one tooth to find them, one tooth to bring them all, and in the darkness bite them.