My Husband's Sweethearts

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Book: My Husband's Sweethearts Read Online Free PDF
Author: Bridget Asher
some cleavage. "Lucy, dear! How are you? You look
awful. Have you started smoking again?"
    "I've never been a smoker. That's you," I tell my mother.
    "I confuse you and me, sometimes. We're so similar."
    "No we aren't."
    "I've brought dinner," she says, placing the bundle of
roots in a tidy pile on the ground.
    She walks back to her car and lifts up a casserole dish
in a canvas bag with the words Hurray for Potluck stitched
onto it.
    "Like that, for example. I don't even own a canvas bag,
much less one that says Hurray for goddamn Potluck!"
    "Don't cuss," she says, wagging her head. "Some
women think it's sexy, but it's not."
    *
    I stare out the back window at the swimming pool while
my mother, Joan, buzzes around the kitchen. She arranges
plates on the kitchen island. She flutters around fixing the
dishes, getting silverware, dishing up food. Did I mention
that she's brought her dog, Bogie? Bogie is a well-endowed
dachshund. He is so well endowed that her
fourth husband called him the five-legged dog. The fifth
leg is, however, a sad appendage. First of all, neutered and
ball-less, it's been rendered pretty useless. Second of all,
because of the dog's swayed back and four stumped legs,
it had started to drag a bit on the ground—not so bad in
shag carpeting but difficult when it came to, say, gravel.
This was a problem. Eventually, the thing might get calloused
from such dragging, and is that any way to live?
Really? My mother decided it was not any way to live, that
it was embarrassing, in fact, so a few years back she fashioned
some penis supports for dear aged Bogie. A doggie support lederhosen, she called it. But Artie and I were
quick to correct her: it's a doggie jockstrap. So that the
most important protective gear stays in place, the doggie
jockstrap is an elaborate harness system reaching around
Bogie's hind legs, over his front shoulders and snapping
midback. This would be fine, I suppose, if my mother
didn't have such a fashion flair for doggie jockstraps—a
hidden talent, really. She uses wide ribbon and bows, always
color coordinated with holidays—orange in fall, red
and green in winter, robin's egg blue in spring . . . As a result,
Bogie always looks like he's dressed for some upcoming
event. He's a handsome dog, nearly show-dog quality
to begin with, as my mother is quick to point out.
    And so here is Bogie, waddling around my mother's
feet in his dapper jockstrap. He always holds his chin
high, but can't ever shake the watery, worried look in his
eyes that makes his cockiness seem like a fragile mask for
deep insecurities. Of course he's insecure, and who can
blame him, really?
    "Bogie is looking good these days," I tell her.
    "He's showing his age," she says. "Aren't we all?" She
bends down and lifts up one of his small paws, bobbing it
at me in a wave. "Hello, Lucy!" she says in this high fake
voice that's supposed to be Bogie's. "I wanted to bring
him along because he's missed you!" she says.
    "And I've missed him," I say. Bogie, really, rarely enters
my mind, although I have to admit that when certain
subjects come up in conversation—like pervie stuff
bought for a bachelorette party—I can't help but think of
Bogie, whom Artie calls the oh-so-sad Marquis de Sade of
the dog world.
    My mother pours us both a stiff drink. She lifts it. "To
Artie! Dear, dear Artie! May he pull through!" she chirps.
    "He isn't going to pull through. You said so yourself."
    "Yes, but that information doesn't make a good toast.
Toasts are positive."
    "And why are we eating like he's already dead?" I ask.
    My mother doesn't answer.
    The Hurray for Potluck bag has reminded me of a running
joke that Artie and I used to have. My mother went
through a phase of cross-stitching every sappy saying
known to man—of the If you love something, set it free variety—onto pillows, blankets, shirts, wall-hangings, pot
holders, and trivets. Artie started pointing out some of my
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