Last Chance (4 page)

“Some of the animals, especially the dogs, have to be prepared for adoption,” Kathy said. Before I could ask her what she meant, someone called her from the end of the corridor. She excused herself for a moment. When she returned, she said, “I'd better get you settled.”

We went back the way we had come. Kathy beckoned to a woman whom she introduced as Janet and who followed us back to the office part of the shelter.

“Janet will get you up and running,” Kathy said. “I'll check in on you later. If you need anything, I'm in the office right next to yours.”

Janet showed me to an office that was small enough to qualify as a closet. Somehow a computer table had been wedged inside. On the table were a computer, a telephone, and a box of papers.

“I know it's not much,” Janet said. “To be honest, it used to be a file room. But at least it has four walls, a door that closes, and a window that opens.”

It did not, however, have an extra chair, so Janet had to hunch over me while she showed me what she wanted me to do. I was so busy paying attention and taking notes that I barely had time to think about Nick D'Angelo. If I were lucky, I wouldn't run into him again.

 

. . .

“Well, how was it?” my mother asked. She had just come through the door and still had her keys and her briefcase in her hand. “They didn't make you work with dogs, did they?” She sounded even more worried than I had felt getting out of my father's car that morning.

I shook my head. “It was just like they told me on the phone,” I said. “I'm working on a computer.”

The worry vanished from my mother's eyes, which are a stunning shade of aquamarine. I always thought it was unfair that I hadn't inherited her coloring. My eyes are the same lead gray as my father's.

I told my mother that I would be entering names and addresses into a database, although Kathy might need me to do odd jobs every now and then.

“Did your father pick you up like he promised, or did you end up having to take the bus?” she asked later, over dinner. My father had spent nearly twenty years as a police officer and since retiring from the force had built an enormously successful business. But my mother always talked about him as if he were an overgrown teenager who couldn't be trusted to do his chores. Probably because he had missed more than a few birthday and anniversary celebrations. To be fair, that was usually because of work.

“Dad was right on time,” I said.

“Did he say anything about me?”

“No.”

My mother studied me for a moment. “You haven't told him about Ted, have you, Robyn?”

Ted Gold was the man my mother had been seeing for nearly five months. She seemed to like him a lot. I didn't blame her. He was nice. In fact, I liked him a lot too, which was why, this time, I had resisted the urge to mention him to my father the way I'd mentioned other men my mother had gone out with. It was also why, this time, I could react to her question with sincere indignation.

“Of course I haven't,” I said.“A promise is a promise.” My mother was fanatical about keeping her personal life private from my father—for good reason. “I don't think he even suspects that you're seeing someone.” Why would he? He usually relies on me to volunteer that type of information.

“Well, if he asks, don't say a word. I don't want him harassing Ted the way he harassed Anthony, Patrick, and Chris.”

Anthony, Patrick, and Chris are other men my mother has been out with. My father didn't actually harass them so much as he'd
chatted
with them. And in all fairness, that had been during the first year that he and my mother were separated (but still technically married). Right after the separation, my mother had gone through an intense period of dating that had only lasted a few months. I think she wanted to purge my father from her system. That period had coincided with my father being in complete denial about the separation, which is why, I think, he'd behaved the way he had. He'd grilled me for information about who my mother was seeing, and I had happily supplied it (I think I was in denial too). And then he'd had
little talks
with the men in my mother's life.

The men involved learned that my father is a big guy, in great shape (for someone his age), with a forceful personality. They learned that he was an ex-cop with a lot of friends on the police force. They also learned that he was in private security now. My father told them that they would probably be surprised at how much information one person can find out about another person if he knows where to look. He told them that the main thing he's learned by being in the security business is that everybody, but
everybody
, has something that they'd prefer to keep secret from the rest of the world. My father's personality, along with his access to a wealth of information, had alienated the affections of Anthony, a professor of English literature (a pretentious bore, if you ask me); Patrick, a tax accountant (a plain, old-fashioned bore); and Chris, a dental surgeon (drills, large needles, and pain).

I've changed a lot since then, even if my father hasn't. I've figured out that my parents probably aren't going to get back together. I understand that my mother likes Ted now. I know she deserves to be happy. And I know better than to tell my father anything.

“My lips are sealed,” I told my mother. But I didn't add that just because I wasn't going to say anything to my father, it didn't mean that he was never going to find out. She already knew that.

My mother relaxed. “So,” she said, “are the people at the animal shelter nice?”

 

. . .

“Can you meet me tomorrow after I get off work?” Billy said when he called after supper.

“Why?” I said. “What are you protesting now?”

Not only was Billy a dedicated animal rights activist, but he was spending the summer working at a social justice camp that got kids involved in all kinds of causes, from protecting the environment to fighting against child labor.

“Nothing,” Billy said. “I swear. I still feel bad about what happened.” I already knew that. He had called me twice over the weekend to apologize. “I want to make it up to you. I want to take you out to dinner and a movie.”

A couple of “I'm sorry” phone calls I could understand. But dinner and a movie? That didn't sound like Billy.

“You've been talking to Morgan, haven't you?” I said. Morgan had been disappointed when I told her that I couldn't join her at her cottage as planned. She'd become furious when she found out the reason why: “Because of one of Billy's save-the-world protests? What about saving my summer?” Morgan's focus, unlike Billy's, was on her own species—and on one member of it in particular.

“I just want to do something nice for you, you know, because if it wasn't for me . . . ”

“She yelled at you, didn't she, Billy?”

“Yeah,” Billy said with a sigh. “She sort of said I ruined her summer—and yours.”

“Sort of?”

“You know Morgan.”

I did. She expressed her feelings freely. She dispensed advice even more freely.

“It's okay, Billy. You didn't ruin my summer, and I'm not mad at you.”

“I still want to take you out, Robyn.
Please?”

I know Billy as well as I know Morgan. Morgan had made him feel worse than he already did, and he would go right on feeling terrible until I let him do what Morgan wanted.

“Okay,” I said. “Dinner and a movie sounds nice. Where do you want to go?”

“There's a vegan restaurant a couple of blocks from the camp. I can meet you there, if that's okay, and we can walk to the theater from there.”

I told him that sounded great.

M
y job: help the shelter's fund-raising committee by entering names and addresses into a database. Sitting next to my computer was a cardboard box filled with photocopies of checks, lists of participants at events such as the shelter's annual dog-walk-a-thon, and clip-out coupons from the shelter's newsletter or its calendar—which, by the way, featured cute and cuddly dogs, not fierce-looking dogs like Orion and the two pit bulls I had met the previous day. The mound of paper would have had my very organized mother delivering lectures on the perils of disorganization.

I pulled the first coupon out of the box, read the name and address written on it, checked both against a website Janet had showed me, and made a couple of corrections on the original piece of paper. Then I entered the information into the database. Even though I understood why all this checking was important—“Would you make a donation to an organization that couldn't even be bothered to spell your name correctly or get your address right?” Janet had said—I couldn't help thinking that a few days of this would have me begging the powers-that-be to open the schools early.

From where I sat, I had a good view of the shelter's two main wings, the heat-seared lawn between them, and the parking lot beyond. Every now and again I glanced out the window and saw shelter staff members taking the shortcut across the lawn from one wing to the other. By mid-morning, the volunteer dog walkers were outside with their charges. They were mostly retired people, according to Kathy. One of them in particular caught my eye—a thin old man with snow-white hair. He was working with a dog that looked an awful lot like Orion. I looked more closely. It
was
Orion—I was sure of it.
Good luck,
I thought, turning back to my computer. I checked and entered a few more names and addresses into the database, and then I glanced out the window again.

The old man had taken Orion into a fenced-in area of the yard. I watched them. The man didn't seem the least bit nervous. Nor did Orion seem the least bit fierce. He was sitting, but his ears stood at attention. He seemed utterly focused on the man, who was standing beside him, facing him. The man curled his hand into a fist, as if he were hiding something in it. He held the hand in front of Orion's nose for a moment. Then, slowly, the man pivoted around so that he was facing in the same direction as Orion. He squatted down and lowered his hand from Orion's nose, past his chest, and down to the ground. Orion remained sitting—which I found astonishing—and lowered his head to follow the old man's fist. The man swept his fist along the ground farther away from Orion. The dog slid forward to get closer to it until finally he was lying down. I saw the old man smile. He brought his hand to Orion's mouth and opened it. Orion gobbled something out of it. The man clapped his hands, and Orion stood up. Then the man got him to sit. He ran through the whole sequence with Orion again. He was training the dog, I realized. He seemed pretty good at it too, which made me wonder if he were really a staff member, not a volunteer.

“Not again,” I heard someone exclaim. Kathy bustled past my door. She did not look happy. When I turned to the window, I saw her marching across the lawn toward the old man and the big dog. Her expression was serious as she talked to the man. The old man shook his head. Kathy said something else. The old man didn't look any happier than Kathy, but he finally nodded. The next thing I knew, he was leading Orion back to the animal wing.
What was that all about?
I wondered.

 

. . .

The shelter was air-conditioned, for which I was grateful. August was turning out to be even hotter than July had been. Not only had the grass withered from green to brown, but the leaves were curling on the few trees on the property. It hadn't rained for weeks. But as hot as it was, I couldn't stand staying indoors all day. I like to breathe real air, not climate-controlled air, as often as possible. There was a picnic table at one side of the yard, shaded by a large umbrella. At lunchtime I peeked out at it and saw that it was empty. I collected my sandwich and juice from the staff fridge and headed for the table.

By the time I got there, someone else had claimed a space. The old man who had been working with Orion was sitting at one end of the table. There was a thermos in front of him. I hesitated. Did I really want to spend my lunch break talking to an old guy I didn't know? I glanced around but didn't see any other shady spots. The man noticed me and smiled.

“Don't tell me one of you people has decided to brave the elements,” he said. He waved me over. “Come on. I don't bite.” He laughed—animal shelter humor, I guess—and stood up when I reached the table. He reminded me of my grandfather—my father's father, who was in a nursing home in New York State. Grandpa Hunter always leaped to his feet when a “lady” approached, just like this man was doing. If the bench hadn't been attached to the table, he probably would have pulled it out for me, just like Grandpa Hunter.

“Mort Schuster,” the old man said, catching one of my hands in a grip of iron and pumping it.

“Robyn Hunter,” I said, sitting on the bench opposite him.

“Pleased to meet you, Robyn,” Mr. Schuster said. He sat down again, unscrewed the lid of his thermos, and poured something into a cup.