Authors: Laurien Berenson

Dog Eat Dog (4 page)

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog

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Six

That weekend the weather finally broke. For the first time since mid-January, the thermometer climbed high enough to awaken hopes that spring might actually be on the way. The snow in our yard turned to slush and then mud. Davey and Faith loved it. Speaking as the floor washer, dog groomer, and the one who did the laundry, I was somewhat more ambivalent.

Saturday morning, Davey and Faith were outside playing hide-and-seek, my son's favorite game. With the puppy for a playmate, the exercise has a whole new wrinkle. Davey hides, and Faith seeks. This saves me all kinds of time. As a mother who's mislaid her son in more situations than she cares to count, being excluded from the challenge is positively gratifying.

I opened the back door and stuck my head out. “Want to go to the park? It's much too nice a day to spend sitting around here.”

“Yea!” cried Davey. “Can Faith come, too?”

“Of course.” Faith was a member of the family now. It hadn't occurred to me to leave her behind. Too bad Sam was in the middle of a week long jaunt to London, otherwise we could have invited him as well.

“How about Joey Brickman?”

“Let's make a call and see.”

Alice, Joey's mother, had not only forgiven my tardiness Tuesday evening, she'd understood. The woman was a saint. Then again, she'd been coping for years with a husband who worked all hours at a law firm in Greenwich. She was used to dealing with the temporally challenged.

What she wasn't used to dealing with was chicken pox. Joey's little sister, Carly, had them and was thoroughly miserable.

“No problem,” I said. Davey and Joey had gone through a bout together two years earlier. “I'll pick Joey up and he can spend the day here. The night too, if you like.”

“No, just the day would be great. Joe should be home later.”

Joe was her husband. Neither one of us mentioned that it was Saturday, when most fathers were home all day.

“You're a lifesaver,” Alice said gratefully.

“Just call me Supermom.” I laughed at my own joke. So far, my motherhood skills seemed to consist mainly of the muddling through variety. Fortunately, that didn't make me any different than most of the other mothers I knew.

I loaded dog and child into the Volvo and we swung by the Brickmans' to pick up Joey. Alice waved from the door as Joey came tearing down the walk. He threw open the back door and flung himself onto the seat like Rambo on a terrorist raid.

Faith yelped and hopped up to join me on the front seat. I didn't blame her a bit. That boy must watch too many cartoons.

“Seat belt,” I said.

He was already reaching around to strap up.

“Check out the odometer,” Davey told his friend proudly. Cars are his passion. Everything about them fascinates him. “Pretty soon, it's going to be all zeros.”

“What's a 'dometer?” asked Joey. He had a thatch of dark curly hair, freckles everywhere, and he'd recently lost his first tooth.

Davey showed him where to look as I pulled away from the curb. I'd pointed out the day before that the meter was approaching all nines and Davey was delighted with his new knowledge. “That's how you measure how many miles your car has gone.”

“Cool.” Joey looked at the large number. “How many is that?”

“Ninety-nine, ninety-nine hundred,” Davey said importantly. “Pretty soon it's going to say a hundred thousand.”

Actually he'd missed a digit. It was going to say two hundred thousand. But who was counting? Probably just me, and the happy mechanic we all but kept on retainer down at Joe's European Motor Cars.

“Wow,” said Joey. “Way cool.”

Way cool. Are five year olds easy, or what?

Apparently I wasn't the only mother who thought the park would be a good idea on a beautiful early spring day. When we arrived, the playground area was filled with children. Almost immediately, Davey and Joey were drawn into a boisterous game of freeze tag, whose sound effects had all the resonance of heavy artillery.

I found a bench in the sun and sat down to watch. Faith hopped up and draped her front paws across my legs. At forty plus pounds, she still thinks of herself as a lap dog.

I threaded my fingers in behind her ear and scratched her favorite spot. The puppy danced happily in place. Poodles are generally very well behaved. Their main ambition is to please their people, which makes them a delight to live with. Faith was still at the stage, however, where a puppy's exuberance often outweighed common senseâand things like putting two big muddy paws into someone's lap could seem like a good idea.

Since she was there anyway, I ran my fingers through her neck hair, checking for mats. At ten months, Faith's thick black coat was growing rapidly; and to create maximum effect in the show ring, she'd need every inch. The hair on the top of her head and the back of her neck had never been cut, but it would still take another year for her to grow out a full show coat. During that time, the hair was washed and conditioned, then either banded or wrapped to keep it out of the way.

Faith lifted her nose into the wind, wuffing softly. I tickled beneath her chin and her tail wagged slowly from side to side. Before Aunt Peg had given us Faith, I'd never pictured myself as a dog lover; now I couldn't imagine the family without her.

“Hey Mom!” cried Davey. “Look at this!”

He was hanging upside down by his knees from the highest bar on the playground apparatus. As if that wasn't exciting enough, he had Joey pushing him so that he swung wildly from side to side.

“Very nice,” I called back.

One thing I have to say for motherhood. It has given me nerves of steel. After five years with Davey, almost nothing fazes me. Threats to life and limb are commonplace; anything less serious I scarcely notice.

I leaned back against the bench, closed my eyes and turned my face up into the sun. Faith was warm and heavy in my lap and the sound of children's laughter filled the air. When I was younger, I'd dreamed of this. I'd pictured myself right hereâa working mother who was busy but very content, watching her children at the playground on a Saturday afternoon. This was where I'd thought I was heading when I married Bob.

Too bad I was wrong.

Bob and I met while we were in college, stayed together through graduate school, and then married almost immediately thereafter. Two incomes enabled us to swing the house. Bob mowed the lawn; I cooked the meals. Sometimes after dinner we'd hold hands like teenagers and walk around the neighborhood; more often, we'd hold hands and not go anywhere at all.

Bob worked in White Plains and I started part-time at a school in Stamford. I had visions of the two of us growing old together like Ozzie and Harriet. In my case, it turned out that love was not only blind, it was deluded as well.

Looking back, I realized that Bob and I had never really talked, at least not about the things that mattered. I wanted a baby; Bob wanted to wait. Six months later, I found out I was pregnant. Though the pregnancy wasn't planned, I was thrilled. Bob would change his mind, I'd thought. He'd have to.

We shopped for a crib and a layette, and turned the second bedroom into a nursery. If Bob began working late more as my due date approached, I didn't really blame him. I had mood swings even I didn't want to be around.

When I went into labor, Bob was with me all the way. He coached, he breathed, he blew. After the doctor, he was the second person in the world to hold our child. He was utterly captivated; I knew it just by watching him.

The bubble burst ten months later. In the intervening time since he'd first held his perfect baby boy, there'd been too many sleepless nights and take-out meals, curdled milk stains on his clothes and a diaper pail that needed emptying when he'd rather have been out with his friends.

One day when Davey and I were at the supermarket buying formula, Bob had packed up his clothes, the stereo, the VCR, and moved out. I read the note he'd left on the kitchen table. It explained nothing; at least not in words I could understand.

I might have cried, but with Davey sitting on the kitchen floor, stacking cans and tupperware around my feet and waiting for his lunch, there wasn't time. So I picked up my son and set about building a life for the two of us.

Courts had hammered out the details of our divorce. I'd kept the houseâmortgaged to the hilt. Bob had agreed to pay child support. After the first few months, the checks stopped coming. When I called the phone number he'd given me, I found out why. Bob had gone off to find himself, his roommate told me. He felt he needed a little time and space.

Tell me about it.

And now he was coming back to see his son. I sat up and gazed out over the playground. Davey and Joey were on the swings, their small legs pumping mightily to carry them ever higher.

Davey had unzipped his sweatshirt; the bright red tails were flapping in the wind. His sneakers and jeans were streaked with mud, as were the small, sturdy hands that clutched the chains holding up his seat. He was laughing out loud as the swing arced upward; his mouth opened in a round “o” of delight as it swooped back down toward earth.

Pride and love swelled together in my heart.

Bob was going to be very proud of his son.

But what would Davey think of his father, a man he'd never known? Would they build a relationship; and was it a good thing if they did? What would happen to Davey when his father left again?

There was so much I'd tried to protect Davey from, and for the most part I'd succeeded. But there was nothing I could do to shield him from the threat I feared was looming now. As if sensing my thoughts, Faith snuggled closer. I tangled my fingers in her hair and she leaned into the caress.

“Hey Mom!” Tired of the swings, Davey and Joey came running. “We want to take Faith on the slide.”

At the sound of her name, the puppy jumped up, ready to join in the game.

“I don't think dogs are allowed on the slide.”

“I bet Poodles are. Poodles can do anything.”

Aunt Peg had been coaching him. I just knew it.

Faith leapt up and braced her paws on the front of Davey's shirt. Standing like that, they were almost the same size. Davey wrapped his arms around the puppy's neck and gave her a hug. “You're the best dog in the whole world,” I heard him whisper in her ear. “We're pretty lucky.”

Worries about what was to come faded. On a sunny Saturday in the park, who could argue with a sentiment like that?

Seven

We stopped for ice cream on the way home, then dropped Joey off at his house. Alice opened the door, looking frazzled and distracted. Her daughter was in her arms. Carly's delicate skin was pock marked with dozens of small red blisters.

“Let me know if you need anything,” I said.

“You know I will.”

As soon as we got home, I headed Davey straight upstairs to the bathtub. His clothing was stiff with dried mud, and the parts of him I could see weren't any cleaner. Faith followed me out to the kitchen, trotting directly to the cabinet where I keep the biscuits.

Whenever Davey and I come back from school or shopping, Faith gets a reward for staying home alone. This time, however, she'd come along and shared in our fun. The interesting thing about Poodles is that you never really know just how smart they are. Had she forgotten that treats were for when she'd been left behind, or was she hoping to con me into forgetting?

“All right.” I opened the cabinet door and the pom pon on the end of her tail whipped back and forth. “Just one.”

As I'd been shown in handling class, I held the biscuit up for a minute and made Faith pose before getting her reward. The exercise is called baiting, and it's tremendously useful in the dog show ring. A dog that will stand on its own looking pretty, is vastly more appealing than one that must be constantly manipulated into the right position by its handler.

Finally I tossed the biscuit and Faith plucked it happily out of the air. As she carried it over to her crate in the corner, the phone began to ring. Davey's at the stage where he likes to talk to everybody. I hurried around the counter and snatched up the phone before he could decide this was a good excuse to emerge, dripping wet, from the tub.

“What are you up to?” asked Aunt Peg. Opening pleasantries just get in her way; she often bulldozes right past them.

I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down. “Trying to figure out the best way to get mud out of a show coat.”

“The best way is not to get mud in the coat in the first place.”

“Too late.”

She sighed, and made sure it was loud enough so I could hear. “Legs or topknot?”

“Legs and stomach.”

“Could be worse.” Peg stopped to consider. Inside the crate, Faith finished her biscuit and stood up to paw her bedding into a lumpy mass. “When's her next bath?”

“Uhh ...” Poodles that were growing hair for the show ring were supposed to be bathed weekly. The problem was that with a coat like Faith's, the bathing and the blowing dry that followed took at least three hoursâa chunk of time that I was often hard pressed to find.

“Definitely in the future.” Trying hard to factor in honesty, it was the safest answer I could come up with.

“I should hope so. Is the mud wet or dry?”

“Mostly dry by now.”

“Just toss her up on the table, and brush it out. That's probably the easiest way.”

By table, Peg meant a grooming table. They're collapsible, stand waist high and are covered with rubber matting. Every Poodle, whether it's going to be shown or not, learns at an early age how to sit on one and be groomed. At the moment, my table was folded up in the basement, along with a box filled with brushes, combs, scissors, and all the other grooming paraphernalia I was gradually acquiring.

“That doesn't sound too hard.”

“It's not,” Peg agreed briskly. “Now listen. What are you doing Thursday?”

Experience with Aunt Peg had taught me to be wary. I wracked my brain for a ready excuse. “Teaching school?”

“Not then, later. At night.”

“Well ...”

“Good. Belle Haven's holding its committee heads meeting that night at Francisco's. It's very convenient.”

For people who lived in Greenwich and were committee heads. Neither of which seemed to apply to me. “I thought that meeting was next week.”

“It was, but there was a mix-up in the booking at the restaurant, and we lost our room. It's not that big a group, but if we're to get any work done, we need to be set apart. Lydia rebooked us for Thursday.”

“I'm not a committee head,” I pointed out. “I'm not even a member.”

“Yes, but I am.” The patience of a saint was there in her voice. “And I need a ride. My car's going to be in the shop.”

“You just bought that car.” I thought of my old Volvo, which had weathered more than a decade. “Don't tell me it broke down already.”

“Twenty-thousand mile check-up. When you show dogs, the miles add up quickly. The service was already scheduled and when I called to change it, they said they couldn't fit me in again for a month. Imagine!”

I did. Knowing the way Aunt Peg got around, by then she'd be due for the next check-up.

“It's a week night. I don't know if I can get a sitter.”

“Already done,” Peg said smugly. “I called Frank. Did you hear he has a new job?”

Frank is my brother, younger by four years chronologically; and by eons, if maturity were taken into account. He lives in an apartment in Cos Cob, a fifteen minute car ride from here, tops. Even so, we never seem to spend much time together. Some siblings are born friends; others develop the relationship later. Though the death of our parents six years earlier had brought us somewhat closer, Frank and I were still in the process of finding our way.

Meanwhile my brother, who had yet to choose a career path in life, changed jobs with regularity. On the whole, he was just as likely to be unemployed as he was to be working. He called it keeping his options open. To me, it looked like swinging on a trapeze without a net. But then, I've always played the ant to his grasshopper.

“He's tending bar,” Aunt Peg told me. “It seems he sees this as the first step up the ladder in food services management.”

I thought of all the comments I could make, but didn't say a word. After all, stranger things have happened. Look at me. I was trying to find three hours in my schedule to blow-dry a dog.

“Don't bartenders work at night?” I asked. There was an out here somewhere. I just had to find it.

“Frank's got the weekend shift. So he has Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday off. It all worked out perfectly. Frank will be at your house by six, and you can come straight here. I've explained to Lydia and made your reservation. You're having the sirloin.”

“Great,” I said with notable lack of enthusiasm.

“I knew you'd be pleased.”

Like hell she did. Maybe I should bring some school work with me. I could use the time to get caught up....

“Listen,” said Aunt Peg. “I've been thinking.”

Uh oh. A sure sign of trouble.

“You really don't have anything to do with the planning for the show, but since you're going to be at the meeting anyway, maybe you could snoop around a littleâ”

“Do what?” I yelped and woke Faith up. She lifted her head and cocked an ear inquiringly.

“Those dinner checks are still missing, you know., And I mentioned to Lydia that you were pretty good at figuring things out.”

“Oh no I'm not,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted to do was get involved in another of Aunt Peg's projects. “I'm often baffled and confused. Even the smallest things confound me.”

“Don't be ridiculous. This whole business is very odd, you have to admit that. Nobody can cash those checks, so what could they possibly have hoped to gain by taking them?”

“Maybe someone was having cash flow problems. They'd written a bad check and didn't want to be found out.”

“You see?” cried Aunt Peg. As soon as I heard her triumphant tone, I knew I'd been had. “That's just the kind of thinking we need.”

“I'll go to the meeting,” I said firmly. “But that's all.”

“Of course you'll go to the meeting, dear. I'm counting on you. See you Thursday!”

As soon as I hung up the phone, it rang again. At this rate, with Faith still to brush through, Davey and I would be lucky to eat dinner by midnight. I picked up once again.

“Mel? It's me.”

I should have known. Back when we were together, Bob and I had always sensed when one of us was thinking about the other. It was an uncanny connection, one that transcended time and distance. I'd be home thinking of Bob and he'd call from work. Now I'd spent the afternoon dwelling on our time together and here he was.

“Hi Bob.” I went back to the kitchen table. My chair was still warm. “How are you?”

“I'm okay. Actually, I'm pretty good. I need to ask you something ...”

There was just the slightest hint of a southwest accent, but the twang I'd heard the week before was gone. Actually, Bob sounded rather sheepish, and that wasn't like him at all.

“What?”

“Did I talk to you the other night?”

“More or less.”

“Then I did call?”

I grinned, glad he couldn't see me. “You don't remember?”

“To tell the truth, that night's a bit hazy. I was out with some friends.”

“It sounded like you were out with half of Texas.”

He chuckled softly. “That's the way my head felt the next morning, too.”

“You didn't used to be much of a drinker.”

“I'm still not. We were, ah ... celebrating.”

“You said something about an oil well.”

“Did I?” He sounded surprised. “I wish I could remember. What else did I say?”

As I wondered how to answer that, Faith stood up, shook out and came sauntering out of her crate. She walked over to the counter and cast a meaningful glance at her empty food bowl. Her message was perfectly clear. In fact, her communication skills were so good, I thought it was a shame I couldn't put her on the phone and let her talk to my ex-husband.

“Not much, really.” If he didn't remember what he'd said about coming to visit, I certainly wasn't going to remind him. I stood up and headed over to the counter. “Do you really own an oil well?”

“I own a share. A quarter, actually. Still, it should pay off pretty well. Listen I've been thinking. Actually this has been on my mind for a while... What I'm trying to say is, maybe it's about timeâ”

I dumped three quarters of a cup of dry kibble into the stainless steel bowl, then carried it to the sink and ran hot water over it. “What?” I said as I set the food aside to soak. “I couldn't hear you.”

“Of course you couldn't hear me. It sounds like you're running a gravel pit up there. What was all that racket?”

I reached down and ran a hand along the side of Faith's neck. “I was making a bowl of dog food.”

“Dog food? When did you get a dog?”

“You've been gone four and a half years, Bob. Lots of things have changed.”

There was a long moment of silence on the line. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess they have.”

I opened the refrigerator and got out the cottage cheese and a can of meat to use as mixers when the kibble was ready.

“So how's my boy?” asked Bob.

“Davey?”
It just popped out, I swear.
His
boy?

“Of course, Davey. Who else would I mean?”

“I don't know,” I said, swallowing a breath. “Davey's fine.”

“He must be getting big.”

“He is.”

“Like he can walk, and talk. . .”

He'd been doing those things for years. But then how would Bob know? The last time he'd seen his son, Davey had been wrapped in a swaddling blanket.

“He can do all of that,” I said curtly. “He goes to school, too.”

“Jeez, Mel. You're not making this easy, you know?”

“Easy? Why on earth would I want to make things easy for you? Do you think they've been easy for me?”

“You're angry,” he said softly. “I guess I can see that.”

“I guess you'd damn well better.” I almost hung up on him. My finger was poised over the “off” button when I thought better of it. I put the receiver back to my ear.

“Look,” Bob was saying. “I don't want to fight with you. And certainly not over the phone. I'll admit I haven't been the best father.”

You haven't been
any
father. That's what I wanted to say. But he was right. What was the point of arguing now?

“That's about to change. I'm coming to Connecticut. I want to see you and I want to see Davey. I want to get to know my son.”

BOOK: Dog Eat Dog

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