LITMIR.BIZ

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at Mom’s later today. Family dinner, attendance mandatory. That means Mom and Dad, my four brothers, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, better known as Matt, Mark, Lucky and Jack, and their spouses and progeny.

      Jack is my oldest brother, married to Sarah and the proud father of four kids—Claire, Olivia, Sophie and Graham. Lucky and Tara are in hot pursuit with three—Christopher, Annie and baby Jenny. Sarah and Tara are better known as “the Starahs.” Mark, the third O’Neill boy, is in the middle of a bitter divorce from my oldest friend, Elaina. They have a son, Dylan. Then comes Matt, single, childless and currently my housemate, and finally me, the baby of the family.

      Trevor may also be there, the unofficial O’Neill, practically adopted by my parents when he was a teenager and a frequent guest at family events. Good old Trevor. I pull harder, faster, streaking up the Hudson in a gliding rhythm. My muscles ache with a satisfying burn, sweat darkens my T-shirt, and all I can hear is the slip of the oars into the water and my own hard breath.

      An hour later, I finish my row feeling substantially less polluted than when I started. I lift Rosebud into her sling, pat her fondly and jog home. Yes, I’m a jock. All that exercise lets me enjoy every junk food on earth, so if for only that reason, it’s worth it. I run up the front porch stairs, open the beautiful oak door and brace myself against the wall. “Mommy’s home!”

      And here she comes, my baby, one hundred and twenty pounds of loose muscle, drooping jowls and pure canine love. Buttercup. “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she bays, her giant paws scrabbling for grip on the hardwood floors. I wince as she gathers her sloppy limbs and leaps, crashing against me.

      “Hello, Buttercup! Who’s a pretty girl, huh? Did you miss me? You did? I missed you, too, beautiful girl!” I pet her vigorously, and she collapses in a grateful heap, snuffling with joy.

      Being Buttercup’s owner, I feel that maternal obligation to lie to her about her physical appearance. Buttercup is not a pretty dog. As soon as I had my house secured last month, I went to the pound. One look and I had to have her, because it was clear no one else would. Part bloodhound, part Great Dane and part bull mastiff, her coat is red, her ears are long, her tail like razor wire. Bony head, awkward body, massive paws, drooping jowls, doleful yellow eyes…Well, she won’t be winning any doggy beauty pageants, but I love her, even if her only tricks thus far are sleeping, drooling and eating.

      “Okay, dumpling,” I say after Buttercup has lashed me with her tail and slobbered a cup or so of saliva on my sleeve. She wags once more and falls almost instantly asleep. I step over her large body and head for the kitchen, weak with hunger.

      As I rip open a package of cinnamon/brown sugar Pop-Tarts, I lean my head fondly against the kitchen cabinet. I love my new house, the first that I’ve owned. Sure, it has its problems—capricious furnace, tiny hot water tank, unusable master bathroom, but it’s pretty much my dream house. A Craftsman bungalow (Eaton Falls is full of them, and I’ve always coveted their petite charm), the house has sturdy stone columns on the porch, funky lead-paned windows and patterned hardwood floors. I have the bigger bedroom upstairs, Matt has the smaller one off the kitchen. Once we worked out the “toilet seat goes down” rule, my brother Matt and I have gotten along quite well.

      “Hey, Chas.” Said brother emerges from the bathroom in his ratty blue-plaid bathrobe and a cloud of steam.

      “Hey, pal. Want a Pop-Tart?”

      “Sure. Thanks.”

      “Did you just take a shower?” I ask.

      “Yup. All yours.”

      “And of course, being the one considerate brother I own, you left me some hot water,” I say with great hope.

      “Oops. I did kind of space out in there. Sorry.”

      “Selfish, spoiled baby.” I sigh with martyrish suffering.

      “Don’t talk about yourself that way.” He grins and pours us each a cup of coffee.

      “Thanks. Hey, when are you guys going to start the upstairs bathroom?” I ask, taking a grateful sip. “No offense, but I’m really looking forward to a tub of my own.”

      “Right,” Matt answers. “Hm. Not sure.”

      Like most firefighters, Matt has a side job, since the city fathers don’t see fit to pay its heroes a livable wage. (This is a tirade I was raised on.) Matt, along with Lucky and a few other guys, do renovations, and so of course I hired them to redo my bathroom. Someday, it will be gorgeous—Jacuzzi tub, new tile floor, a pedestal sink, pretty shelves and all sorts of neat containers to hold my girly stuff. Unfortunately, other jobs from nonrelatives have taken precedence.

      “Maybe you can get started before my death,” I say around a bite of Pop-Tart.

      “Yeah, well, that’s gonna be tight,” Matt deadpans. From the other room, Buttercup, who has been sleeping soundly, scrabbles from her prone position as if she’s just scented a missing child. Matt braces himself against the wall. “Hi, Buttercup.”

      “Aaaahhroooorooorooo!” she bays, rejoicing at the sound of Matt’s voice as if she’d been parted from him by war and not her own nap. Tail whipping dangerously with love, she lumbers over to him—jowls quivering, hindquarters swaying—crashes into his pelvis, then collapses with a groan at his feet, heaving herself on her back, softball-sized paws waving in the air.

      “My God, you’re a whore,” Matt tells her, obligingly rubbing her expansive tummy with his foot.

      “Takes one to know one,” I comment, bending down to unlace my sneakers.

      “Speaking of whores, how was your night?” Matt asks. “You went to Emo’s, right?”

      I sigh, then look at his face. He’s trying not to laugh. “You already know, you bastard. Who told you? Trevor?”

      “Santo called. Said you have a new girlfriend.” Matt straightens up, laughing. “So are you batting for the other side now, Chas?”

      “Bite me, Mattie.” I grab my Pop-Tarts and head for the stairs. “Listen, I’m gonna finish painting my wainscoting. What time is dinner at Mom’s?”

      Matt grimaces. “Two.”

      “Where do you want to go first?”

      “The Dugout?” he suggests. Yes, Mom is cooking dinner. That’s the point.

      “Sounds great.”

      A few hours later, Matt and I hop in my car, Buttercup draped over the backseat, snoring loudly. Leaving her in the car, we drop into the Dugout for buffalo wings and fried calamari, amiably watching Sports Center as we eat, then pay our tab and head for the family home.

      “Where have you been?” Mom barks as we come through the door. The roar of the family gathering hits me like a truck.

      “Gutterbup!” Dylan shrieks, running toward my dog, who collapses on the floor, rolling over so the toddler can scratch her stomach. From the other room, Elaina gives me a wave. I distantly hear my brother Mark speaking sharply to someone from the basement. Uh-oh. Elaina and Mark in the same house…not pretty.

      “Hi, Mom,” I say, bending to kiss her cheek. “Nice of you to invite Elaina.”

      “It’s about time those two got back together,” she announces, yanking the ties of her apron a little tighter.

      “And are they falling over each other in love?” I ask.

      “Not exactly,” she acknowledges. “She hasn’t forgiven him yet.”

      “He did cheat on her, Mom.”

      “Do we have to discuss this now?”

      “No, we do not. Is everyone else here?” I ask.

      “Yes, we’ve been waiting for you two, the roast is almost ready, now shoo! Get out of the kitchen! Take that carcass you call a dog with you. Go!”

      “Auntie!

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