Lawyer for the Dog (18 page)

“What in hell did you say that for?” I'm scaring Sherman. His tail, normally held high, drops down behind his legs, and he disappears behind the sofa.

“You want the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” Gina says. “First, because it's true: You aren't over it. Isn't that why you've never let anybody else have a chance, because you're still mourning over Joe Baynard?” Gina's voice has that high-pitched shakiness it gets when she's confronting me, not as employee to employer but as girlfriend to girlfriend. “And second, since I'm being honest, because I guess I was hoping I'd discourage him.”

“So you could work your wiles on him, right?” I sound as mean as I feel. I don't blame Sherman for staying behind the sofa.

“Yes, but don't worry, he doesn't seem the slightest bit interested. Maybe he's as screwed up as you are—still mourning over
his
divorce!”

“Gina,” I say, trying to stay calm, though she doesn't deserve it, “I need you to act like a secretary, not a high-school sophomore.”

“Sure,” she says sarcastically. “May I get you a cup of coffee, Ms. Baynard?”

I should fire her, but how do you fire one of your best friends? “Just leave me alone!”

When Gina flees I call my other real friend, Ellen. She's going over police reports in a nasty rape case and is glad for the distraction. “You have any books on dogs?” I ask.

“You didn't get out of that case?”

“No. I'm in even deeper now.”

“Why are you laughing?”

“I guess I'm losing it.” But it feels good to laugh. Only now does Sherman decide it's safe to reappear.

*   *   *

I open the back door of my car, move some things I've been meaning to take to the dry cleaners, and pat the seat. “Hop in, Sherman.” He doesn't budge. “What's the matter? Too good for a Toyota?” I pick him up, plop him on the seat. I'm just pulling out of the parking lot onto Broad Street when I feel his nose nudging my elbow—an insistent nudge—and he hops through the space between the front seats and then onto the passenger side, where he seems satisfied. “Okay, I get it. I didn't mean to insult you by making you sit in the back.”

When I pull into the cavernous darkness of the condo parking garage he stands up in the seat, presses his nose against the window. “Don't worry,” I assure him, “I don't live down here. You'll see, it isn't so bad.” I'm not sure who I'm consoling—Sherman or myself.

He hesitates as I lead him—
yes, Mrs. Hart, he's on his leash
—past the front desk and into the elevator. “What's his name?” asks a woman I recognize from my floor. Before today, we've only nodded at each other.

“Sherman.”

“He's very handsome,” she says. Sherman sniffs around her feet, then up her leg.

“Stop that, Sherman!” I scold.

“He smells Curly. My poodle. Maybe you'd like to walk with us sometime?”

“He's just staying with me temporarily,” I explain.

“Oh, that's a shame. I don't see how you're going to part with him!”

Sherman seems happy to see Delores—could he remember her from the beach?—but she's definitely not happy to see him. “We don't need no animal around here. That judge must be crazy!”

“He's not thinking straight. Marital problems.”

“Should have learned his lesson the first time around,” she says. Delores knows the bare bones of the Joe-Sally story. “You!” she shouts at Sherman. “Get away from that trash can!”

“He's just confused right now.”

“Who? The dog or the judge?”

“The judge. The dog, too, probably.”

“Was he that crazy when you were married to him?” she asks.

“No. We were just too different.” I unpack the bag of Sherman's supplies. “Delores, do you think I should put some gravy or something on this food? It looks so boring.” Sherman dances around me, his eyes intent on the plastic bowl.

“Gravy might give him the runs. Fancy dogs like this, they got sensitive stomachs.”

Sherman devours the dry food without any hesitation. “I wonder if I gave him enough,” I say, squinting to read the directions on the bag of food.

“If the judge wanted to put this animal in a foster home, he should have picked somebody who knows about dogs.” Delores fills another bowl with water. “And you're gonna have to take him outside later, so he can do his business. I don't want to be cleaning up after no animal.”

“Where's Mom?”

“Sleeping,” says Delores.

“She's sleeping a lot lately.”

“I try to keep her up, but after a while she just don't have the energy.”

“What did she eat today?”

“A couple of bites of spaghetti, a little bit of salad. Not enough to keep a bird alive. We took a walk, but she can't go far, and then we came back and tried to watch a movie, but she couldn't keep up with the story. I think it wore her out.” She gathers her purse and coat. “You been thinking about what we talked about?”

“I haven't had much time.”

“Charlie's about to have his first chemo treatment.”

“Maybe things will go better than you think.”

“The doctor says it might buy him a few months, but not much more. It's gonna be rough.”

“I know you need to be with him, Delores. I've made a couple appointments to look at some nursing homes,” I say. I feel like a traitor to Mom.

After Delores leaves, Sherman follows me back to the bedroom, where I change into a sweatshirt and jeans and he explores the jumble of shoes at the bottom of my closet. He's well past puppyhood but I sense that he's nostalgic for chewing, and I give him an old sandal with a broken strap. “Here, Mr. Adorable. Make yourself at home.”

I can't remember the last time I wore the sandals. They're white, delicate, not the kind of thing I'd ever wear to work. They belong to another time, long ago, maybe some garden party with Joe. The strap's been broken for years. “Fix them or throw them away,” my mother would say, if she could.

 

Running in His Sleep

I've brought part of the Hart file home with me, but I'm not sure why. Maybe I want to believe in magic: maybe somewhere in these notes and memos there's an answer, a way out. That happens every now and then when I'm so immersed in a case that I'm drowning in facts. I'll read through my notes and remember what my old law school professor used to say:
Every case is a story. Ask yourself: What's essential in this story? Take that narrative and shape your strategy around it.

Sherman's curled at my feet. He doesn't seem interested in the sandal. “You miss them, honey?” I say. He looks up, his eyes dark and brooding behind the heavy brows. “Maybe we should give them a call, let them know you're okay.”

Mr. Hart doesn't answer, but I leave a message on his machine. Mrs. Hart doesn't pick up right away. She sounds a little drunk. “He's doing fine,” I say. “I gave him some dinner, and now he's—”

“You don't need to feed him but once a day, in the morning,” she snaps. “I put a note in the bag about all that.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see it. What about those pills in the little bottle?”

“Heartworm tablets. He needs one on the first of next month.”

“I can't imagine I'll have him that long.”

“Didn't you read the order? The judge said you're going to keep him until the trial. Henry Swinton says that could be six months or more.” She's crying. Sherman hears her voice, hops onto the sofa next to me.

“If you and Mr. Hart would settle, we could get this over with tomorrow.”

“How can we settle? We can't divide Sherman in half.”

“No, but perhaps you could work out a schedule that would be acceptable to both of you. One of you could have primary custody, and the other—”

“What about poor Sherman? Should he spend the rest of his life going back and forth?”

“Mrs. Hart, I'm not your lawyer, but I'm sure Henry has told you how unpredictable these cases can be … I mean, when a case goes to trial, you lose control over the outcome. What happened today is just an example.”

“What happened today was an abomination!” She struggles not to slur her words, pronouncing every syllable of
abomination
very carefully.

“My point is, wouldn't it be better to work out an agreement you can live with than to take a chance that you'd lose Sherman altogether?”

“I don't see how that can possibly happen.” I hear her take a sip of something. “Where will he sleep tonight?”

“In my bedroom, I guess.”

“He's accush-tomed to sleeping with me.”

“Will he need to go out, to pee, before bedtime?”

“Yes. But you'll need an umbrella.”

“What?”

“It's raining here,” she says. “If it's raining there, he won't go out un-lesh you cover him with an umbrella.”

“Mrs. Hart, I need to ask you about something else.” I turn the pages of my notes. “It's about Anna.”

There's a silence, then, “Anna has nothing to do with this case.”

“Is she your daughter?”

“Anna has chosen not to have a relationship. I haven't seen her since she was eighteen.”

“How old is she now?”

“Thirty … thirty-six.”

“So you haven't seen your daughter in eighteen years?”

“It's her choice, not mine.”

“I'd like to understand what happened.”

“But it doesn't have anything to do with Sherman.”

“Please, Mrs. Hart. You have to let me decide what's relevant and what's not.”

She sighs. “Anna was a difficult child. Brilliant, very artistic, but headstrong. When she was fifteen—a rising junior in high school—she convinced Rusty to let her apply to the Governor's School for the Arts.”

“It's up in Greenville, right?”

“Yes. A public boarding school. I knew it would be a mistake. The students were … I don't know … They were just too … and I didn't want Anna living two hundred miles from home, but Rusty wouldn't listen. Things went better than I expected her first year there, then in her senior year she came home for Christmas break and she just wasn't herself.”

“In what way?”

“She didn't want to tell me, but I found out. She'd fallen in love with a boy from Newberry. They were having sex.”

“It happens.”

“It may happen to other people's children, but I was determined it wasn't going to happen to Anna. Not in
high school
, for good-nesh sake. So Rusty and I drove up there and confronted the headmaster. He suggested we talk to her about birth control and, oh, you know, the other unpleasant things … I was furious. I insisted he give us the address of the boy's parents, and on the way back to Columbia, Rusty and I paid a call on them. They lived in a trailer park. The father worked as a common laborer. They weren't our kind of people. They were polite, said they would talk to him, but I could just tell from their environment that they'd have no control over him.”

“But if he made it to the Governor's School, he must have been a pretty special kid, right?”

“Talent is not the shame … same … as character,” Mrs. Hart says. “I think I hear Sherman whining.”

“He's fine. He's right here.”

“Anyway, after this episode Rusty and I had a big argument. I wanted to take her out of that school right away. He wanted her to stay. Finally he came to his right mind.”

“She had only a semester left before graduation, right?”

“We—I—arranged for her to transfer to Pharington's, in Richmond. They agreed to take her on condition that she repeat her senior year.”

“How did she react to that?”

“Not well. She blamed me for being too controlling. She blamed her father for not standing up to me. But then she calmed down, and we thought everything was … Excuse me, I need a tissue. This is so difficult … We thought everything was going to work out. We took her to Pharington's. She was acting a little strange—not yelling anymore, but just too quiet. The next thing we know, we get a call from the headmistress that she's run away. And she hasn't come home since.”

“You haven't talked to her at all?”

“She communicates with Rusty, but he's very secretive about it. He may even have seen her a couple of times, in New York.”

“She lives in New York?”

“I think so. Rusty slipped up once after a business trip to Manhattan, said something about having gone to an art gallery. He NEVER goes to art galleries, so I was quite suspicious. And he's still going to New York at least twice a year, even though he's retired. He never wants me to come along. Says he visits one of his old banking buddies, but I don't believe him.”

“Surely if he'd seen her, if he'd talked to her, he'd tell you,” I say.

“You would think so, if he had a shred of decency…” She's crying. “Now do you see this has nothing whatsoever to do with Sherman?”

“I appreciate your being honest with me, Mrs. Hart.”

“Sherman is the only one in my life, the only one who's been loyal.”

“He's a good dog.”

“When can I see him?”

“What about tomorrow morning, at my office? I'll be busy, but Gina will be there.”

“Perhaps I could take him out for a walk?”

“No, I'm sorry, Mrs. Hart. I can't disobey the order.”

When we hang up, I check on my mother. Sherman follows me into the dark room. The steady drone of her snoring is almost lost in the sound of the rain against the window.

*   *   *

Years from now, when I'm an old woman like my mother, even if I've forgotten almost everything else, I'm sure I'll remember standing in the downpour outside my building, rain running in sheets down my parka, holding an umbrella over Sherman, who's taking his sweet time. And I'll remember sharing my bed with this little fellow who runs in his sleep, holding him until he settles down.