Lawyer for the Dog (13 page)

I call Gina before I leave the courthouse. “We settled. I'm going to run by the post office, be back there in half an hour or so. Any crises?”

“Everything's under control. Mrs. Hart called, said she's dropping something off for you to look at. And Betty has something for you.”

*   *   *

Betty, Judge Baynard's secretary, hands me an envelope. “It's the final order in that Anderson adoption,” she says. “You okay?”

“Fine, just tired.”

“You seem … I don't know … stressed.”

“No more than usual.”

“That's not what Gina says.” Betty and Gina are old friends. They talk all the time. “She's worried about you, says you've been acting … She thought it might be about your mother, so I hope you don't mind that I told her about the other stuff that's going on.”

“Other stuff?”

“Yeah. You know, between my judge and you.”

I look her in the eye. “There is nothing going on between your judge and me.” This comes out sharper than I mean it to. “
Nothing.
”

*   *   *

I skip lunch, grab some crackers from the courthouse snack bar and stomp back to the office, ready to explode at Gina, but Mrs. Hart is in my waiting room with Sherman, who sits politely at her feet.

“I just dropped by to bring these photo albums for you to look through,” says Mrs. Hart, “but if you've got a moment—”

“Maybe I could watch Sherman while you talk,” offers Gina.

Mrs. Hart frowns: “He doesn't really like … strangers.”

“Oh, we'll be fine,” says Gina. “I love dogs.”

“Well, I suppose … but please let me know if he seems at all upset.” She lets Sherman off his leash. “Stay, Sherman. Show this nice lady what a gentleman you are.”

“Hold my calls, please,” I tell Gina. Sherman sniffs her shoes and investigates the trash can, but concludes that it holds nothing of interest and settles down beside her desk.

I lead Mrs. Hart back to my office.

“I'm glad you can work me in,” she says as she hands me a shopping bag that must weigh twenty pounds. It's stuffed with photo albums. “I've documented Sherman's life from the time we got him to the present. I think you'll find these very helpful.”

“Thanks for bringing them.”

“I'm sure you'll see how close our bond is,” she says. “If Sherman could talk, he'd tell you.”

And then I remember what my mother said the other night:
Dogs can tell you things.

“Mrs. Hart, would you mind if I spend a little time with Sherman?”

“Of course not. I'll go get him.”

“No, I mean … I'd like to spend some time with him, just the two of us. I promise I won't lose him again.”

She looks nervous. I can't blame her. “I suppose it would be all right, but you must promise me you'll keep him on the leash. I couldn't bear it if something happened to him.”

“I promise. Maybe you could do some shopping? Or there's that nice coffee shop down the street. I'll be back in an hour.”

MEMO TO FILE:

HART V. HART

Walked Sherman from my office down Church Street to the Battery. He seems relaxed with me, though initially reluctant to leave Mrs. H. Does he sense her nervousness? Is this a problem? Long-term negative effect?

He's perhaps too friendly when meeting other dogs. (Vet said this was schnauzer personality.) Has no fear of bigger dogs. This almost gets him in trouble with a Great Dane. Maybe Mrs. Hart is wise to insist that he stay on a leash.

He pees a lot: tree trunks, lamp posts. Does this indicate some problem or is just territorial? (Ask vet.) Also tries to eat other dogs' poop. Unhealthy? (Ask vet.)

What I leave out of the memo is this:

It's slowgoing down to the Battery. He stops to sniff everything: lamp posts, parking meter poles, tree trunks. He seems totally absorbed in sniffing. We're within a couple of blocks of the Harts' downtown residence and several times he lifts his head, surveys the scene as if searching for his master, then he looks back at me and cocks his head in what seems like a question:
Where is he?

And this: When the Great Dane growls at Sherman, I'm much more alarmed than Sherman is. I pull him back, pick him up, comfort him—though maybe he's the one doing the comforting. I like sitting on the bench with Sherman in my lap. I like running my fingers through his wiry outer coat to the soft fur underneath. He seems to like this, too, and likes it even more when I scratch him under his ears. I can feel his whole body relax. I'm not really doing anything, just serving as a cushion, but I feel useful, as if I have discovered a whole new purpose in life.

And my conversation with Sherman stays out of the memo, too. Okay, it isn't really a conversation, because he doesn't talk back, but he's an attentive listener.

I wish I could let you run around free, but I promised her I wouldn't let you off the leash. I wish you could tell me who you'd rather live with. I know, it's hard. You don't want to hurt their feelings, do you?

You like Dr. Borden, don't you? So do I. He seems wise, sweet. Maybe a little sad. What do you think that's all about? And he's sexy—but I guess I shouldn't be talking to you about that.

Anyway, we should be heading back to the office. She'll be worrying about you.

Another thing I leave out of the memo: On the way back to the office Sherman rolls in a pile of dog poop. He revels in it. How he manages to do this while I've got him on the leash, I don't know, but I'm realizing there's a lot I don't know. Before I can pull him away he's covered in the stuff. The leash gets a good dose, too. “Stop!” I yell, and yank hard. He turns his head and looks at me as if to say,
What's the problem? This is the best thing that's happened to me all day!

I can't take him back looking like this. As we walk north on Meeting Street I see some painters working on the Calhoun Mansion. They have buckets and a hose.

“Mind if I rinse off my dog?” I ask them. They're delighted at the diversion, even if it's a slightly nasty one, and they help me with Sherman. We all get wet. I have to walk the dog around the block a couple of times before he stops dripping, and as we're walking I notice something: having an adorable dog trotting in front of me makes me a lot more noticeable. I'm suddenly very attractive. I'm the woman behind the adorable miniature schnauzer. Every half block or so someone stops me to ask his name, his breed. I'm content just to be along for the ride.

Mrs. Hart is pacing the sidewalk outside my office building. “I'm sorry,” I say, “we were having such a nice time together.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “I was worried,” she says. “Come here, darling!” She bends down toward Sherman. “Mama missed you!” And then: “Why, he's
wet!
”

“We passed by some sprinklers.”

Why do I feel a little disappointed when he wags his tail and barks that sharp little bark that I know means he's happy to see her?

*   *   *

Upstairs I confront Gina. “I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't talk to Betty about my personal life.”

“What do you want me to do, hang up on her?” Gina's voice has that high-pitched, I-know-I've-screwed-up whine.

“I want you to tell her it's not appropriate to gossip about your boss.”

“She was just trying to be helpful, sharing some information.”

“Because you told her I hadn't been acting like myself, right?” My own voice has that high-pitched, I'm-really-pissed-off screech.

“I don't remember saying that.”

“Did you say anything
like
that, maybe?”

“I just mentioned that you'd been a little … Is it really such a big deal?”

She's got me now. If I say
Yes, it's a big deal
, this will get back to Betty, then, who knows, maybe back to Joe. “No, it's not a big deal, but I don't want it to happen again, okay?”

“Okay.” Gina hands me a stack of phone messages and I pretend to look through them, but the truce doesn't last long.

“While we're on the subject,” she says, “if you'd just give me some information now and then, I wouldn't have to hear it from other sources.”

“Like, what kind of information?”

“Like Judge Joe leaving his wife, telling her he's in love with you, that he's never for one minute been
out
of love with you.”

“I didn't know anything until Ellen—”

“Oh, come on. I thought we were friends.”

“We are, but we won't be if you don't stop.” I go back to my office, fuming.

*   *   *

An hour later she knocks on the door. “I've just about finished with the draft of Dr. Borden's affidavit and the motion to bifurcate.”

“I'll look it over later.”

“But you'll need it tonight, won't you?”

“What?”

“He called while you were out with the dog, said something about coming by after his clinic closes so he could look over the affidavit.”

“I can't stay late tonight. It's not fair to Delores, and it's too late to call Vicki again. Tell him we'll fax it.”

“But I thought you said you wanted to file it ASAP … That's what I told him, which is why he offered to come by after work.
”

“Tell him you'll fax it, he can look it over, and if it's okay, you can take it to him tomorrow for his signature.”

Gina perks up. “He sounded nice. Married?”

“I think so.” I lie. It's instinctive, territorial.

“Too bad. Listen, Sally…”

“What?”

“I'm really sorry … about the thing with Betty.”

“Apology accepted. And I'm sorry for yelling.” I go back to my work. On any other afternoon the stacks of files might feel overwhelming, but today they're reassuring, familiar and safe, the kind of problems I know how to solve. I attack them one by one, making notes, drafting memos, formulating strategies.

At solving other people's problems, I'm a master.

 

It's Complicated

I get home a little early. The condo is quiet: no Delores, no Mom. I panic until I remember they drove out to Middleton Plantation for the afternoon.

This morning I'd reminded my mother about the outing. “You always like the plantation, don't you, Mom?”

She shook her head. “We lost the plantation.”

“That's right, Mom, we don't have the plantation anymore.” I'm talking nonsense, but only part of it has to do with her Alzheimer's. She's always believed in the myth of her family's lost plantation, kept it alive as a kind of antidote to her middle-class existence. As a child I believed in it myself—the thousand acres of fertile South Carolina land, the big house, the fine furniture, the family portraits painted by famous artists, all stolen by marauding Yankees—until one day an older cousin revealed the truth: that the place was just a small farm and the ancestors who'd owned it weren't rich at all, just hard-scrabble folks who'd lost the land during the Depression.

I used to argue with my mother about “the plantation,” scold her about the danger of such myths, make speeches about how much better it is to be self-made and self-sufficient than to depend on inherited wealth. She never listened. “You come from a
very
prominent family, Sally. Don't forget it.”

But I don't argue with her anymore. Delores taught me this. “She lives in her own world now. No use trying to pull her into yours. You just upset her. If she thinks she's the Queen of England, don't cross her, just say, ‘It must be nice, having all those castles and jewels.'”

“But isn't it wrong,” I said, “to lie to her like that?”

“You're just going along, to get along,” said Delores.

I've read a dozen books about Alzheimer's, talked to three specialists, and yet I don't think I have half the wisdom Delores has about my mother. She knows there'll be good days and bad days and even worse days. She knows that no matter how hard she tries to be a good caregiver, there'll be bad days, but she doesn't punish herself with guilt. After the disastrous afternoon at the beach she apologized for dozing off, as she should have, but I know she does her best, and her best is much better than mine would be if I stayed with my mother eight hours a day, five days a week. I often wonder how Delores manages to maintain her generally good mood, her patience, and her sense of humor.

But this afternoon when they get home Delores' smile isn't convincing. There are circles under her eyes. “Did everything go okay at Middleton?” I ask.

“Yes, ma'am. She sure likes that place.”

“But maybe it's too much, taking her all the way out there. You look exhausted.”

“No, I like seeing her have such a good time.” Delores gathers her things and says good-bye but then lingers at the door, as if she's too tired to turn the knob.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“We need to talk,” she says, turning around.

We sit across from each other in the living room. Delores smoothes her wrinkled slacks, strokes her thighs as if trying to calm herself. It's then that I notice the ring on her left hand. A small diamond.

“It's beautiful, Delores.”

She nods. “That's what I need to talk to you about.” She turns to my mother, who's beside her on the sofa, yawning. “You sleepy, honey? Ready for bed?”

“But she hasn't had any dinner.”

“We had a little snack on the way back. Come on, Miz Margaret, let's get into your nightgown.”

How many times, I think, has Delores sermonized on the pitfalls of marriage? But when she comes back I do my best to sound enthusiastic. “Congratulations! When's the big day?”