A car gives a friendly honk and I wave, even though I don’t catch a glimpse of the driver before they pass. Because that’s the sort of town Haven is. The upstate New York town I call home for half the week isn’t so small that everyone knows everyone else, just small enough that we pretend we do.
And now you’re like, Wait, half the week? What’s that about?
It’s like this…
I was born and raised here in Haven, but like so many young twentysomethings who grew up within a few hours of New York City, when it came time to get a job the city offered more choices. This is especially true for an elementary school teacher in a town with exactly one public school, zero job openings.
And I don’t mean that in a woe-is-me, I-couldn’t-find-my-dream-job-in-my-hometown sort of way. Truth be told, I’m sort of thrilled with the way my life’s turned out. I love my prep school job in Manhattan.
And I love just as much that I come back up to Haven every weekend.
See, New York City is crazy expensive, especially for a gal on a teacher’s salary. Most of my coworkers live outside the city, but fate sprinkled a little bit of love on my living situation. I have a cute one-bedroom apartment that I share with a gorgeous redhead named Waverly. She’s a consultant who travels Monday through Thursday (London at the moment, but it’s also been Dubai, Los Angeles, Amsterdam, and that’s just in the past year). We turned the huge bedroom into two, and we basically…share it. I live there during the week, she lives there on weekends while I head up to Haven.
All of the benefits of living alone, with the financial perks of having a roommate. It’s brilliant, right? And yes, it makes for a long Friday afternoon and Monday morning commute. But it also means I get to see my parents every Sunday, spend weekend nights sipping wine with the girl-crew I grew up with, tend to the house my grandma left me.
And there’s my dog, Rigby, who…
Well, okay, Rigby doesn’t live with me full-time. In fact, one might say that I only have partial custody. Not even primary custody.
Here’s what happened with that. Every year, I volunteer at the local animal shelter during summer break. Every year I tell myself I will not take home one of the animals, because my apartment in Manhattan isn’t pet-friendly. And I can’t leave a dog at my house here in Haven, when I’m gone four nights a week. Ergo, no dog.
But then this frazzled-looking young woman brought Rigby into the shelter during my shift. Rigby had belonged to the woman’s grandma, who’d passed away unexpectedly. Since the extended family was made up of cat people or people allergic to dogs, the poor little guy didn’t have a home.
I mean, none of the pets at the shelter have a home, but…well, if you’ve ever had a pet, you know that sometimes there’s just something about that one animal, you know?
Plus, listen to this: growing up, I’d always wanted a dog, and my parents had always said someday. And back before I learned that “someday” actually meant “never” in parent-speak, I picked the name for my someday dog: Rigby. And I wanted a cocker spaniel.
Fast-
forward to that day at the shelter. Here was a black cocker spaniel named Rigby in need of a home. It was a sign.
As we’ve established, I’m big on signs.
So I launched a plan. Rigby came home with me and for the rest of the summer stayed at my house in Haven, except with lots of trips over to my best friend Mark’s house, whose backyard borders mine.
Mark Blakely’s one of those dog people, you know? He’s got the non-fussy jeans, the big yard, and he’s not going to lose his crap if there’s dog fur on his bed.
So that first September morning when I went back to work, I showed up on Mark’s doorstep with twin sets of puppy eyes: mine and Rigby’s.
He’d taken the dog. In fact, even before I’d shown up, he’d already purchased dog bowls and a bed and installed a doggie door, because he’d seen it coming. Best-friend benefits, and all.
I bound up the steps of Mark’s house, switching my under-the-breath caroling to “Jingle Bells.”
Mark’s house is basically in my backyard. Technically our backyards are separated by an invisible property line, but since neither of us bothered to put up a fence or any sort of divider, it’s pretty much one big shared lawn. I think we tell ourselves we do it for the dog, but it has other benefits too—borrowing a cup of sugar (read: wine) and stuff like that. Plus, there’s always someone to talk to when we need it. Though it’s usually me doing the needing. Mark’s not much of a talker.
From the outside, Mark’s house looks a lot like mine—small, a little old-fashioned. Inside, though, it’s amazing. He recently renovated the whole downstairs, and I may be a bit jealous. He tore down the old narrow wraparound porch and replaced it with one twice the size. It’s got a wide wooden swing and two comfy outdoor chairs, plus some sort of fancy pull-down mechanism that lets you sit out there even when it snows and stay completely dry.
Now if I could just talk him into putting up a few thousand Christmas lights…
I open Mark’s back door and walk in without knocking (this is Haven, we’re not big on locks). It’s four on a Friday, which means he’ll be down at his restaurant prepping for a busy weekend night serving up the best food in town. I could be biased about that, but I don’t think so. Cedar and Salt opened a year and a half ago, and it’s been practically impossible to get a table ever since.
I softly hum “Let It Snow” as I call for Rigby. Usually my dog greets me at the front door, and I frown at the lack of sloppy canine kisses.
A moment later I walk in on another kind of kissing entirely.
“Oh God!” I slap my hands over my eyes and pivot on my heel to give them privacy. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, and I’m leaving, like, right now…”
I hear a muttered curse (Mark), then an embarrassed giggle (Sheila).