Chapter 14

The Milwaukee crew arrives in Darlien’s hot-yellow Pontiac Firebird convertible. I know they’ve driven it with the top down when the girls step into the condo. Bette’s auburn, blunt-cut hair looks like something out of a Smurf commercial, standing on end at the top of her head in spikes.

“What happened to your hair?” Kari asks.

Bette catches a glance of herself in the hall mirror. “Yowza! I look like I’ve been tasered!”

“My scalp feels all tingly,” Misty says.

“You must have been in the back seat of the Firebird,” I say. “Where’s Darlien?”

“Looking for parking,” Bette says.

Kari tells me of a lot not too far away, and I take the elevator and wait in front of the building until Darlien comes around again. I hop in and direct her, rather pleased at how well I’ve managed to get around the neighborhood. Darlien wears a visor over well-behaved hair.

“Oh good,” I say as I pick up the moving pillowcase at my feet. “You brought John. I didn’t want him left alone over the weekend.”

“We’re lucky the pet police didn’t stop us for transporting a cat that way.”

“The vet told me to move him using a pillowcase,” I defend. “He doesn’t meow in there, or get sick, and he hates a carrying cage. This way his world is all around him and he can feel it, so he’s secure. He knows all the boundaries.” I pat his back through the green and yellow Green Bay Packer pillowcase. “We’re almost there,” I reassure him. “It’s comforting to know your limits, isn’t it, John?”

Back upstairs, cat is out of the bag. Clint’s picked up ribs for us all and Misty says nothing about their nutritional value but instead comments on how good the sauce smells.

“How long can you stay?” Kari asks.

“We only have this weekend,” Bette says. “I got coverage for our class, Annie. The kids sure miss you.”

I feel sad to have the kids bounced from teacher to teacher so I can get my face—and book in front of Oprah.

“I have to get back on Tuesday for my strip therapy class,” Misty says.

“Woo hoo,” Clint says. “I bet Ed likes that.”

“Ed could care less,” Misty says. “Why would you think that?”

“A striptease class? A way to build a little fire in the marriage? Yeah, I can see Ed liking that.”

“It’s a quilting class, Clint,” Misty tells him with a sock to his arm. “You know, strips of cloth that make up the sides of a barn or the skyline with clouds in a quilt scene.”

“Oh,” Clint says, disappointed. “I think I’ll play pool tonight.”

“You’d better,” Kari tells him with a grin.

“It is therapy for me though,” Misty says. “It puts all the other irritations of my day away because I have to focus on the strips and getting them just so. With a preschooler, it’s the only thing in my day I can control.”

“We’ll head back after the taping of the Oprah show Monday afternoon,” Darlien says. Bette used a day of her vacation time to be here; Darlien has rearranged her work time with another cop—she might have to work the Thanksgiving holiday in return; Misty’s husband is chief babysitter and cook for the next three days. Even Kari plans to take Monday off so we can go to the Oprah show together. They’ve given up so much to help me with this goal and yet I’m having second thoughts after my browbeating from my own Story. Just working to make it the best I can make it might be the better goal to pursue.

“My scalp feels like tiny little insects are lifting weights, pulling on every follicle,” Bette says. She brushed down her spiky hair.

“That happens in the back seat,” Darlien says. “Wind whips around and makes your hair weird.”

“Think of it as a scalp massage with little dancing feet zinging through your hair,” Misty says. “I’ll sit in the back on the way home. I love that sense that something’s alive on my head that isn’t head lice. Not that we’ve had that episode yet this year in preschool!”

“Fortunately nothing is alive!” Darlien says. She sneezes three times.

“Allergies?” I ask. “Maybe it’s John and Ho-Bee.”

She shakes her head. “Probably Chicago air I’m not used to. Not to worry. Hey, where is this beast who has taken over your life?”

“I’ll get him. Then we eat and have sustenance for whatever might happen between him and John.” They ooh and ahh as Ho-Bee prances into the room, an immediate star who gets attention from them all, then turns around three times and lies down to take a nap.

“Very well behaved,” Misty says.

“He can be,” I say.

After finishing his ribs, Clint excuses himself to the local pub, leaving us planners to our devices.

“Let’s recap,” Bette says as we finish up our ribs. “You’ve made progress we hear.”

“On the book, yes. I’ve finally talked with Irving. He sounds very … elegant,” I say. “And I have a direction for revising, yet again. I had a little conversation with the Story, and I’m a little less nervous about completing the work.”

“You talked to your story?” Kari says.

“Story talked, or rather wrote. I listened, and read.”

“Are you going mental on us?” Bette asks.

“Good information always helps reduce anxiety,” Kari says.

“I used your technique for dealing with phobias and fears and gave the Story its own voice. So no, I’m not going mental.”

“What’s it sound like?” Misty asked. “Your Story’s voice.”

“A very firm … Dorothea Dix,” I say.

“Who is she? Some new sitcom star?” Misty asks. She’s gone into the kitchen and gotten wet paper towels for our hands, the ones in the carryout bag not being enough. She wipes her face with one, and after each of us cleans up like John licking his face, we settle into the living room, a little Adam Lambert blasting from the Bose.

“Dorothea Dix was a reformer in mental health in the 1800s,” Kari says. “She was a little quirky, came from a very dysfunctional family, but I can’t imagine the sound of her voice.”

“She did a lot of good, right?” I say.

“You are going mental,” Bette says.

“Because she brings to life a historical woman or one from a dysfunctional family?” Darlien asks.

“Dorothea took on the establishment all by herself and got laws changed,” Kari says. She drinks her soda from a straw. “She improved treatment for people who were mentally ill, especially those in prisons. We could use a Dorothea Dix today.”

“And I didn’t channel her,” I defend. “My story had firmness when it told me to stop procrastinating and write.”

“But how did you know how she’d sound? She’s been dead for like, years, right? You couldn’t hear her,” Bette says.

“Don’t you ever hear the voices of characters who never even lived?” I ask. “I do.”

“That’s why you’re a writer and I’m not,” Bette laughs.

“OK, think Glenn Close then. You like her voice.”

“I like your story,” Misty says. “The more I’ve thought about Miranda, the more real she’s become. And I’ve been filled in about, well, your Jaime.” I wince as she continues. “And I have a new title proposal, one with action in it. That’s what’s missing in Miranda of La Mancha, Annie. It doesn’t have movement.”

She’s right. “So what’s your title?” Bette asks.

“Miranda Meets Her Match in La Mancha. What do you think?”

“I like it,” Kari says.

“Me too,” Darlien adds. “It’s got the match word, like a competition, so that takes in the games.”

“And it suggests a little challenge: what’s the match and how does she meet it,” I say. “It’s great. I’ll send it to Lura and Irving before I go to bed tonight. It’s a good one. Story will like it too.” I laugh. “It’ll be easier to get the title out there for us to promote, too, with the ‘match’ word having a double meaning.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Darlien says. “Your story and Miranda’s is a good one and our task is to get that title out there so people will want to buy it. And Oprah is our way to make that happen.”

“What about the Oprah progress?” Misty asks.

“I got to hear Oprah’s voice, in person,” I say. “Remember?”

“It’s a start.”

I give them the details of my disastrous day with Ho-Bee, who currently lies across my knees like a slug, offering no evidence of his bipolar personality.

“You wouldn’t think such a little dog could cause that much damage,” Bette says.

“He’s a cutie,” Misty says. “And so firm a little body. Norton will love having time with him when you come back home. Assuming John ever approves.”

The canine and feline worked out their status when I released Ho-Bee from his crate and John spilled out of the pillowcase, eyeing the dog from a corner of the room. Ho-Bee sniffed then ran circles around the end table, chasing a red porcupine toy I’d bought for him. John made a sound. Ho-Bee’s ears perked up and he trotted over, dropped the toy at John’s feet, and the cat yawned. Ho-Bee lay down in front of the cat, barked once.

John coughed up a bezoar.

Ho-Bee sniffed it and picked it up, racing around the room with it in his mouth. They’ve been fast friends ever since.

“I’m not sure my landlord will authorize a dog,” I say. “Even a little one. Especially one who likes to redecorate.” I look at the newly repaired dining room table. “And don’t leave your suitcases open,” I warn. “Unless you want your dirty laundry spread across the condo.”

“Do you think they’ll really sue you?” Darlien asks.

“I hope not. Clint’s attorney is getting them to reconsider the amount they told me. Most of the damage was broken bottles of shampoo and oils. Shouldn’t be much cost in replacing that.”

“You’d be surprised. I watch that show of groomer competitions, and you could get a tummy tuck for what a few of those oils cost,” Darlien says. “And people are sensitive about their dogs’ grooming. The patrons might be more upset than the salon owner.”

I’d been feeling better about my future with lawyers, but now I wasn’t so sure.

“You should call and find out what’s happening,” Kari says.

“Isn’t no news good news?” I say.

“Avoidance is never good,” she says. I think of Irving. It was better when we actually talked.

“Well, I’ve made progress too,” Misty says. “I went online to Oprah’s web page. It’s something I can do after Norton’s in bed and Ed’s watching the late news. She asks lots of questions about what you know for sure, about issues in your life, finding your way, seeking fulfillment. She asks for photos. I like the panels on Fridays where they talk about God and faith. Last night she had a conversation about not living your life on unexamined perceptions. I had to think about that one.” She pauses. “I entered comments.”

“I told her about our gal pals,” Misty says.

“You did?” A unison surprise.

“What did you tell her?” I ask.

“She wants book clubs to write about their club and I said I was part of a group and what we do to support each other’s dreams. And that we also read books. Your books, anyway, Annie.”

“We’re not really a book club,” Darlien says, ever the one for accuracy. “I think Oprah wants book clubs that read her picks to send photos.”

“We could read her picks,” Bette says.

“But we do what book clubs do,” Misty insists. “We support each other, talk about stories and what not.”

“Book groups take trips together to visit places where books are set, and we’ve taken lots of trips together,” Kari agrees.

“Quilting groups do that too. I’m going to the big Paducah show one day,” Misty says. “Maybe that’ll be my next goal, to submit a quilt for competition at Paducah or Houston or right here in Rosemont. We could all go!”

“Maybe after Miranda comes out, people will want to go to Spain,” Kari says.

“Or Milwaukee,” I say.

“Both exotic locales,” Kari notes.

“Did anyone contact you from the show?” I ask. “Randolph says producers do that within an hour if they see something they like.”

Misty shakes her head. “But I did read about this singer who rented a hall to perform a concert. He made a YouTube video and had a T-shirt printed with the seating arrangement on it and then stood on the street and asked people if they’d come to his performance and he showed them where he’d set aside seats for Oprah and Gayle.”

“Did they come?” Darlien asks.

“Gayle came. Oprah was in Africa. But he got to sing on her show when she got back. I think she liked his inventiveness.”

“I remember hearing about that singer but I can’t remember his name,” Kari says. “Isn’t that odd?”

“Me neither,” Misty says. The others shake their heads too.

“He got on the Oprah Show, sang, met his heart’s desire, but none of us remember his name?” I groan. “Maybe that should tell us something. So did he get a recording made? Is he now famous and we’re the last people in America who don’t know who he is?”

“Haven’t heard.”

“We could google him.”

“This doesn’t bode well even if I do get Oprah to mention my book,” I say. My Story’s voice is sounding wiser.

Ho-Bee begins to fidget. I wonder if he senses my anxiety. Can dogs do that the way I’ve read that infants can?

“ ‘Let’s not go there,’ says the cat. ‘Let’s not go there, that is that.’ Isn’t that what you’re always saying, Annie?” Bette says as Ho-Bee launches himself toward her, then whips his long tail against her legs and scampers up her jeans onto her lap, licking her face.

“All right, all right,” she laughs. “He’s very affectionate.”

“Just what Annie needs, an affectionate male,” Darlien teases.

Kari slurps the bottom of her soda glass. “Let’s see what else we have on our agenda. Don’t think about that unnamed singer,” she says.

“Tomorrow I’ve arranged for us to go to a chef class,” I remind them. “If we can get tickets. We’ll have to stand in line and wait.”

“Like on Broadway,” Bette says. “What? I went there once.”

None of us knew.

“Then there’s the taping on Monday. And my agent has this harebrained idea that I don’t even want to mention … yet.”

“We have some other ideas too,” Misty says. “We think you should apply to be Oprah’s dog walker.”

“She has one I’m sure.”

“Maybe that walker needs a relief walker.” Misty has taken out a round form and an armful of material. She’s quilting.

“Rather than a dog walker, what about a puppy waste manager?” Kari says. “I saw a car with “Puppy Poo Removal” painted on the side this past week. It never occurred to me that you could get a job doing that. You might actually get several clients around here.”

“What do they do exactly?” Misty asks.

“Go to people’s yards and pick up the … poo,” Kari says. “They pay so much a … collection or so much money per yard and how often people want their yard scanned.”

“People actually hire other people to do that?” I say.

“It’s legitimate work. It has dignity,” Kari defends.

“But why don’t people do it themselves?”

“Time, I suppose. Or maybe they’re really famous and don’t want the paparazzi photographing them doing such mundane things.”

“I bet there’s more turnover in that than walking Oprah’s dogs,” Misty says.

“And the walkers probably do puppy waste management at the same time. Let’s let that one go,” Kari says.

“I’m so glad we can brainstorm without anyone getting upset that their idea isn’t picked up,” I say.

“Like poo?” Bette says and we laugh.

“Here’s my idea,” Darlien says. “What about meeting up with her gardener at her California house? Maybe he offers a master gardener class or something. We could google that and find out.”

“I can’t afford to fly to California on a whim.”

“You took a bus to Chicago on a whim, and it got you close enough to hear Oprah’s voice,” Darlien says. “I’d come with you to California.”

“Not the same thing,” I say.

“Then you won’t like my husband’s suggestion either,” Misty says. “He offered the use of his parents’ time-share in Hawaii. It’s on the same island as Oprah’s house. It’s a beautiful place, older and done all in antiques. Oprah’s house. She featured it in her magazine a while back. You could walk … what did you says your dog’s name is?”

“Ho-Bee.”

“Ho-Bee. You could walk Ho-Bee on that same street and you’d be sure to run into Oprah. Dogs are such a natural way to meet up with people.”

“I’d run into Oprah’s dog walker,” I say. “Look, this isn’t going anywhere. I’m not sure I’ll even keep Ho-Bee, let alone take him to Hawaii.”

“You have to keep the dog,” Bette says. “He’s adorable. Besides, as a writer, you’re pretty isolated. If it wasn’t for us, you might never get out doing things. You subscribe to ten magazines; did you know that? I take them in every day at your apartment. And the catalogs! You must be dreaming all the time! You have to live a little, girl.”

“Hawaii,” Darlien says. “Live there for a few weeks. That’s a great place to research, and you’d need to take me along. It’s almost a foreign country and I wouldn’t want you to get lost like you did in Barcelona. Hawaii has great golf courses.”

“I found my way back to the hotel,” I defend. “And if I can’t afford to go to the almost-foreign country of California, I surely can’t afford to fly to Hawaii.” My credit card is hyperventilating inside my purse, I can hear it.

“I’ve been thinking, Annie,” Bette says. “Maybe you would be better off if you just work on your writing as an entree into the bestseller world? You know, write that piece for O magazine or the New Yorker. Build on your strengths. Maybe an essay about those kids you work with who write such neat stuff or how writers’ real lives are often intermixed with their fiction. You could mention Miranda that way.”

“I miss those kids,” I say.

Kari says, “Instead of pushing yourself to do things you’re not accustomed to do, you could write about the visit to the salon and how it got you a little notoriety and close to a famous person but no fulfillment of your goal.”

“But that’s the point of a goal,” Darlien says. “To push us beyond what we’re used to doing. Let’s not abandon the bestseller part of that yet. We’ve barely begun and already Annie’s heard Oprah’s voice.”

“And I’ve heard a new attorney’s voice,” I say.

“Well, there’s that,” Darlien says.

“Magazine editors work six months out,” I tell them. “Even though it’s October, they’re already working on their spring issues, so they wouldn’t use anything I submit for issues before then anyway, even if they did accept it.”

“The timing might be right,” Bette says. “Has Irving told you when the Miranda book will be out yet? Is it ok if I give him a carrot?”

“Irving?”

“Ho-Bee.” Bette trots to the kitchen for her snack bag, then calls my dog to her. He wags his tail as she hands him the carrot. He promptly turns toward me, and I swear he knows that he looks like he’s smoking a cigar, with that carrot wagging as hard as his tail.

“Add a hat to that dog and he’s Johnny Depp in a crime film,” Darlien says.

“Oprah is in to healthy things. Maybe your book could include an exotic Spanish recipe,” Bette says. “Could you work that into the story line? Maybe the recipe we’ll get at the class tomorrow. Or one I make up. An original.”

“Oh, I know,” Misty says, clapping her hands. “Miranda has a major health problem, one of those rare diseases, and we could suggest that Oprah have a show about it.”

“I don’t like those rare-disease shows,” I say. “I can’t watch House because I always get the symptoms of those rare diseases. The next day.”

“Yes, but could you write one into the story? And then we’d offer you up as someone who has written about it in this amazing book. Maybe we could even find someone with the same disease as Miranda. Poor thing,” Misty says. “And she was so hoping she could marry Jaime but then … she gets this terminal disease and—she has to go to treatment or therapy. How awful! And she’s so young too.”

“It’s only a story,” Darlien reminds her.

“And not Miranda’s story,” I remind her.

“Oh, right.” She returns to her quilting.

“I’m already writing in a dog and Irving wants me to change more scenes and now you want me to work in a recipe and a rare disease too? No, my story will surely resist such changes made for the sole purpose of getting Oprah interested.”

“You make it sound like the story is the decider,” Darlien says.

“In a way, she is.”

“OK. Let’s keep visiting Oprah’s web site and answering her questions,” Misty says. “I’m pretty sure that’s how they pick people for the show. Bottom line is that your story is about good people, and making good choices. It fits right into her Your Best Life theme, no matter how you write the story down.”

“Are we trying to get Annie invited to the show? Or to get Oprah to pick her book?” Darlien asks. “I’m confused. We need clarity.”

“We want her to know Annie’s name,” Kari says.

“Not the book title?” I ask. “I thought …” I didn’t continue, but I knew that what I wanted was to get back to Miranda so I’d have a good reason to call Irving. I was liking talking to him.