Stepdog by Nicole Galland Page A

good dog?”
    â€œOh, well,” I said, and pulled away, leaving my wife and her dog grinning at each other like a couple of eejits.
    For the record, there was a lot of that kind of thing. Who’s a good sport? Who’s a good sport? Rory is.
    W E FILLED OUT the governmental forms on Halloween while waiting for the kids to collect our homemade cookies. Cody did look comical in her Red Sox cap, which she kept trying to shake off. Sara had sewn herself an eccentric costume that I think was supposed to be an elf (as in Santa’s, not Tolkien’s). She modeled it for the first time Halloween evening and looked very cute in it.
    â€œThat,” I declared, taking a bite of a healthy cookie, “admirably reflects both your efficient hands-on midwestern competence and your quirky Greenwich Village quirkiness. Not to mention your sexy legs.”
    â€œYou said ‘quirky’ twice.”
    â€œWell, it’s pretty quirky,” I said sympathetically.
    â€œWhere’s your costume?”
    â€œI don’t need a costume,” I said, arms wide. “I’m already a real-life alien!”
    â€œI should have seen that coming.”
    â€œYou’d think so, given how long we’ve been married and all.”
    We settled by the coffee table with a plate of biscuits, two biros, and all the forms. I lay on the couch, a territory I had claimed since moving in, as it was the only thing that resembled my place. Sara, as usual, took the armchair, and Cody, as usual, rested her chinheavily on Sara’s thigh. Without moving her head, the dog glanced with hopeful eyebrows between the bowl of cookies and Sara.
    â€œNo way, puppy,” said Sara. “Bad for your tummy.”
    The dog sighed, tragically.
    There were so many bloody forms. There was Biographic Information, there was the Affidavit of Support, with sixteen pages of instructions for Sara, making her financially responsible for me. Then the Petition for Alien Resident, again for Sara, saying Rory O’Connor was her husband so could they please not deport his arse. There was the pivotal Application for Employment Authorization.
    Then came the big one: Application to Register Permanent Status. This was only six pages, but Sara commandeered it, partly because she’s a little controlling but mostly because she didn’t trust me to read it thoroughly. I can’t say I blame her—so far my contribution to taming the paperwork had consisted mostly of serenading her with James Taylor songs and spoon-feeding her Ben & Jerry’s. Since Sara had cornered the market on Serious Attitude, I suppose it was a kindness—to her—for me to add a little levity. She had been a good sport about it, but I found her reluctance to trust me with the most important form reasonable enough.
    â€œI don’t think you really want to be trusted,” she said sagely, her keen green eyes glancing up from the form. “I think you like relying on me to be the grown-up.”
    â€œI think you like my relying on you to be the grown-up,” I corrected. “ And I think you like my being silly as well. So actually, you’re benefiting from this arrangement doubly-o. I’m getting a green card, but you’re getting two of your deepest psychological needs met. No, please, you don’t have to thank me.”
    She squelched her smile, and looked back at the form. “‘Haveyou ever ’—that’s all caps, in bold—‘have you EVER, ’” she read, “‘in or outside the United States knowingly committed any crime of moral turpitude—’”
    â€œYou’re kidding me! Moral turpitude ? That’s not on there.”
    â€œâ€˜â€”any crime of moral turpitude, or a drug-related offense for which you have not been arrested?’”
    I erupted with laughter. “Really? I can’t get a green card if I admit I ever got stoned in the privacy of my own