The Mothers A Novel - By Jennifer Gilmore Page 0,22

cloth tote embossed with the same sunny insignia found on the folders, I knew that Ramon would not want to be with other people that night. This is one of the many ways we’re different, Ramon and I. When in front of people, I am cloudless and blithe; I work hard to impress others, to make them feel at ease, and to uphold the notion that I am interesting and charming. Ramon, who is always himself, feels distant and lost when I don’t look up from my performance to note him there.

I resisted my impulse to ask others to join and instead, as we were leaving, I asked for a good local place to eat.

“Fancy?” Anita asked. We’d walked over to their Subaru, the back filled with dog beds and bug sprays and a tangle of bright leashes.

I shook my head.

“No, the opposite of fancy. Maybe barbecue?” Ramon asked.

“Oooh.” Paula nodded. “We know just the place. Do you guys have GPS?”

I shot Ramon a look. “No,” I said. “We do not.”

“A, where’s that map?” Paula asked.

Anita was already fishing in the backseat. “I know it’s here somewhere,” she said, her voice muffled.

“What kind of dogs do you guys have?” I asked Paula as we watched Anita leaning into the backseat.

“Italian spinones,” she said. “Anita breeds them.”

Ramon and I looked at each other. “Really?” I asked. Where did I get the idea that lesbians were always bringing in strays and helping needy children? I was starting to deconstruct every stereotype I held.

“Yeah.” Anita came up for air. “I do a lot of behavior stuff at my practice. And I breed them. I also show some of them, and do agility.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s amazing.” I thought of Harriet’s mother, a submissive freckled spaniel who had to be kept separate from her babies while I chose my puppy. I knew who Harriet’s mother was. I had a family tree for my dog that went back several generations, all the way to the winner of Best in Breed at Westminster.

Paula took out her wallet and showed me a photo of six dogs, all seated in a straight row on their haunches, their coarse hair wild, heads cocked in different directions, all camera-ready. A family portrait.

Just look at them, I thought. I am in love with dogs. Perhaps dogs are enough.

“That’s the mother.” Anita pointed to the middle. “Charlotte.”

“The birthmother,” I said. It just came out.

Everyone stood silent for a moment.

Then Paula shrugged her stocky shoulders. “I guess so,” she said. “But we’re kind of the mothers too. We also have cats. And a few birds.”

“We might actually need to be cut off. Here.” Anita handed Ramon a wrinkled and stained map of Raleigh and Chapel Hill.

Ramon took the germ-infested map without hesitation, smoothing it out as Anita and Paula leaned over him, tracing a path from where we stood to the best goddamn barbecue we New Yorkers had ever tasted.

“Wait, here?” Ramon asked.

Anita snatched the map. “You know what? Just thinking about it makes me hungry. We’ll show you where it is! We’re coming too. I mean, it’s not like we have kids to go home to, right?”

“Oh, great.” Ramon shifted his feet.

“But we have animals, Anita,” Paula said. “What about the dogs?”

“We can call Joanie,” she said to Paula.

Paula shrugged. “Neighbor,” she told us.

“Do you want company?” Anita asked Ramon.

Ramon smiled, genuinely, which pleased me. I could tell he liked them, and when he liked people I took a shine to, it pleased me. “Absolutely,” he said. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner.”

_______

The walls at the Spot were fleshy light brown and pink, beamed with old wood, which gave the effect of being inside the chest of a pig. The restaurant was loud with thrilled voices ordering food and talking about what they’d ordered, and children crying and old people cooing, and it felt good to be part of the bustle of a loved place.

“I’m ravenous.” I looked at the menu. “I might just eat one of you,” I said.

“He was on the Food Network,” Paula told us proudly. Already someone had placed a bowl of corn bread in the center of the table and she nibbled on a piece, leaving a trail of yellow crumbs at the sides of her mouth and down her blue oxford-cloth shirt. She pointed to an enormous man with a sparse salt-and-pepper beard walking around the room, stopping at tables. “He’s the pit master. He does this whole-hog thing they featured on