Obituary Writer (9780547691732) (12 page)

Driving the back roads to Queeny Park, where the dog museum was located, I wondered if Joe Whiting had called on his own or if Alicia had put him up to it. I tried to imagine that her past two weeks had been as distracting as mine—lingering around the phone, gazing into the mirror, rushing to the window with each footfall on the sidewalk.

I wondered if she hadn't been waiting all this time.

The St. Louis Dog Museum took up the whole of a Greek Revival mansion plus an additional wing, built to meet demand. The lawn, lush and manicured, was dotted with statues of dogs: a pointer at the gate, a Jack Russell along the walk, a basset hound curled in the flower garden, a pair of Saint Bernards guarding the front door.

A woman I recognized from the funeral, the bigger of the two who had sat next to me at the service, was greeting guests. She introduced herself as Mrs. Cunningham. Around her neck was a blue scarf sprinkled with small brown terriers.

"I'm Gordon Hatch. I think we might have met at Arthur Whiting's funeral."

"We're so glad you could come," she said. "It's nice to see you." She reached around me then, offering a limp hand to someone who had come up behind me. "I see we have the handler, but where is her champion?"

It was Alicia.

She looked lovely, more formal than last I saw her, in a summery off-white linen dress that hung loosely on her body. The puffiness around her eyes had gone. She leaned toward me to shake my hand, a handshake that I could have sworn suggested,
If we were anywhere else I would put my arms around you.

"I thought you'd come." She smiled in the most casual way, as if we had just seen each other this morning at breakfast. I could feel the blood rushing to my face.

"Gavin isn't feeling well," she told Mrs. Cunningham, "so I've left him at home."

"For his induction?" our greeter asked, somewhat incredulously. "It
must
be serious."

Alicia walked past her, saying she needed to speak with me, and led me from the foyer into the main hall, through a room filled with porcelain Dalmatians and photographs of fire departments posing with their dogs.

"I just needed to take a breath before this all starts," she said. "These little gatherings can drive anybody crazy."

"I was going to call you," I said, feeling more comfortable now. "If you're still interested, I'm more than happy to work on that story we talked about."

"I'm sorry too. I haven't been able to think much about it. I've been packing. I can barely find my feet amidst all of Arthur's things."

At the entrance to the permanent collection, where the addition wing began, she spotted Joe Whiting.

"He's with Bobby Campanis." She nodded in the direction of a man who was listening distractedly to Joe. "You've probably never heard of him—he's not much of a painter, but he does manage to make a living at it, which isn't easy." Her silver bracelets clinked together as she combed her hair around her ears. "I know how hard it is," she said. "I used to be a painter myself."

"You were?" I asked.

"Yes, I did landscapes. I was living in the desert, where you couldn't help but paint."

"Where in the desert?"

"Arizona."

I tumbled this over in my mind for a moment.

"What kind of landscapes?"

She seemed a little embarrassed by the question. "It's hard to summarize. More or less, 'body as landscape, landscape as body,'" she said, as if it were not worth explaining. "But that was a lifetime ago. I haven't picked up a brush in years."

"And what about now?"

"Mostly I've been working with the dogs, grooming and handling, that sort of thing." She shrugged. "But I've already been to the top with Gavin. It's pretty much run its course."

Bobby Campanis was coming up to us now, looking muscular and Mediterranean with a tightly groomed beard that blended smoothly with his cropped black hair. He wore a white T-shirt with black suspenders, tight black pants, and combat boots.

Alicia introduced me as a reporter doing a feature story. Campanis brightened immediately, assuming that the story was about him.

"Mostly I do western scenes," he explained with a New York-New Jersey accent.

He named some painters I'd never heard of—Andrew Melrose, William T. Ranney—and one I knew, George Caleb Bingham, calling them "the dead guys who pay my bills."

He'd been selling his oils on the state fair circuit seventeen years ago—his first trip west of Piscataway—when he was offered a commission by an insurance executive to reproduce
Leaving the Old Homestead,
a James F. Wilkins painting that hung at the Missouri Historical Society.

"Around here it's all about Manifest Destiny," he said. "The peopie can't get enough of it. Historical stuff, you know. After the Wilkins, there was a Bierstadt, then a Melrose, then boom, I'm in demand."

"Bobby did the picture of Gavin," Joe began excitedly. "Gavin liked getting his picture done. He's a picture dog—"

"That's right, Joe," Alicia said, patting him on the arm to quiet him.

Joe pushed his thick glasses back up his nose, slid his hands into his pockets, and settled into an agitated silence. Alicia's power over him was sweet and impressive.

To be polite, I asked Campanis how he had become interested in dog portraiture. Apparently, Arthur Whiting was to thank for that.

"I did a huge Bingham for the bank he worked at, and he loved it so much he told me, 'One day you're going to have to paint one of my dogs."'

"Not just a dog. A champion dog," Joe weighed in, stooping his shoulders apologetically.

"Have you painted dogs before?" I asked.

"Oh, sure," Campanis said. "They're always chasing after stagecoaches, plus Daniel Boone had a coonhound. I've probably done a thousand Daniel Boones."

The sound of a gavel was heard from across the room as someone else I recognized from the funeral took her place beside the portrait, which was covered with a cloth. She wore the same tweed suit from two weeks before.

"First of all, I would like to thank the Ralston Purina Company both for sponsoring this event and for generously commissioning the fine portrait which has brought us together this evening," she said. "Mr. Spears, please take a bow."

Applause rose from the audience of no more than forty people, and the youthful Mr. Spears half stood, waving from the front row, where folding chairs had been set up around a lectern.

"Also, this event could not have taken place without the efforts of Evelyn Cunningham and Barbara Moore Seawickly, co-chairpersons of the Sight Hound Club of Middle America."

The big woman at the front door and her friend acknowledged the light applause by standing up in different parts of the room and clapping in each other's direction, to indicate,
The credit is all yours.

"I'm Helen Stansbury, curator of the St. Louis Dog Museum, and I'd like to welcome you all to this grand occasion. Today we recognize not only a great local champion but a dog of national prominence—winner in Lubbock of Best of Breed at the tender age of fourteen months; winner in the Hound Division at the Steel City Kennel Club six months later; winner of Best in Show at Louisville, October 1988; and at two and a half, winner of Best of Breed and Best in the Sight Hound Division at the one hundred twelfth Westminster Kennel Club show in New York City."

She looked up at the audience, taking off her glasses and setting them on the lectern.

"Gambolling Gavin of Galway is the youngest dog ever to have his portrait hung on these museum walls. He is the most distinguished St. Louis champion since the pug Calypso Mirabella, owned by Mr. Herbert Etheridge of Creve Coeur, who is here with us today."

A fist rose from the middle of the room and shook in the air.

"As many of you know, this event is bittersweet," Ms. Stansbury continued. "Gavin's owner, Arthur Whiting, passed away suddenly three weeks ago and in the prime of life. Mr. Whiting was editor of the
Irish Wolfhound Quarterly,
majority owner of the Mississippi Valley Irish Wolfhound Farm, an active member of the board of this museum, and a regular contributor to a number of hound club newsletters. He was one of the most committed members of the show dog community, and his loss will be deeply felt." There was a hush as people turned to look sympathetically at Alicia.

She was standing beside me, her arm trembling against mine. I wanted to touch her shoulder, reassure her.

The museum curator wrapped up her speech and brought Bobby Campanis before the audience, where he was warmly received. He said a few words about how well behaved Gavin was, how he had sat for his portrait barely moving for the whole eight hours.

"I've got a golden retriever," he said. "You wanna talk about ants in the pants."

When the cloth was lifted, there was a unanimous "Ahh." People got up from their seats and gathered around the portrait for a closer look: on a high bluff over a wide river Gavin sat nobly surveying a dark and ominous landscape. A beam of sunlight fell from above. His masters, a woman in a white veil and a man with a musket slung over his shoulder, stood behind him. A single gnarled tree seemed to point across the river to the open prairie on the other side.

"See, look what I told you," Joe said. "He's the best. So true to life. Totally lifelike. As true as life can be—"

Alicia politely lifted a finger to her lips. "It's just gorgeous, Bobby," she said with the appropriate amount of conviction.

As wine and hors d'oeuvres were brought around, Alicia and I managed to find a corner in the back of the room to talk.

"This must be nice for you," I said, leaning against the wall, trying to look casual, a glass of wine held next to my cheek. "Even if the painting isn't so good, it must be an honor to have Gavin's portrait in this museum."

"Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "This is Arthur's world, and the people in it are a lot older than me." She rubbed her hands over her arms as if she were getting cold. "I never missed a single dog show in the entire time that Arthur and I were together. I was completely devoted, and he used to give me all the credit for Gavin's success. But he was the only one. Most of the people here don't even like me."

I had assumed these people were her friends, but she did seem out of place in this crowd.

"Packing up the last couple of weeks, I've realized how poorly I fit this group. I even look odd in the photographs," she said. "I have no problem with a little snobbery so long as there's an intelligence behind it. But these people aren't smart or ambitious; they're just exclusive." The light on her skin was warm and inviting. "Arthur's death has made me see that I want to do something else with my life. This just isn't my world anymore."

Soon we were joined by Mrs. Cunningham, a plate of crackers in hand. Alicia thanked her for the evening and asked if she knew whether Joe had a ride home.

"He came with the painter," Mrs. Cunningham said. "An interesting fellow, that Campanis, and quite an outfit he's wearing too." She raised her eyebrow sardonically. "The two of them make quite a pair."

Then it was Mrs. Seawickly at our side. Somehow she had found a Scotch on the rocks at this wine and cheese party. "Am I missing something?" she asked. "I heard laughter."

"I was just telling Alicia how nice it is that her brother-in-law has found a friend," Mrs. Cunningham addressed the smaller woman, pulling lightly at her dog scarf. "I imagine life for Joe is awfully lonely, out on that farm with nobody to talk to but the wolfhounds. But I hear wolfhounds are the finest listeners among the
Canis familiarisé
." She laughed as they walked away.

Alicia looked at me, rolling her eyes as if to say,
Why even bother?

"Isn't that your sister-in-law?" I asked.

Helen Stansbury was talking to Margaret Whiting, who seemed to be scanning the room. Nearly a head taller than everyone else, Margaret looked distinctly preoccupied.

Alicia set her wine on a nearby table. "That it is. Let's go," she said, brushing my hand. "This is too much."

"Where?" Was she inviting me along?

"It would be nice if I could talk to a real person for a change. Have a real conversation. You don't mind, do you?" I'd never had much practice reading women's expressions, but for all I knew, the downward turn of her mouth held promise.

"Where?" I asked again, too quickly.

"Well, I really should do some more packing. How about my house? Why don't you follow my car."

We left without saying goodbye to anyone. On the way out of the back room, Alicia kept looking over toward Margaret, who still seemed not to have noticed us.

"She'll never forgive me for marrying her brother," Alicia said as she climbed hurriedly into her Delta 88. By the time I had started the Gremlin, she was already pulling out of the dog museum driveway.

I had to drive like mad to keep up with her. She must have been going 50 in a 25-mile-per-hour zone, forcing me to fly through two yellow lights and a red before I caught up at the turnoff to two-laned Highway 40. Out on the highway she passed a slow-moving carpet truck, but I was caught in the right-hand lane. One car after the next whooshed past me on the left.

The Gremlin begins to shake at 60 miles per hour, so I sat in the slow lane, the needle stuck on 52, pounding my fist on the dashboard, fuming at the cartoon figure of a genie emerging from a bottle painted on the back of the carpet truck, with the message "You Can't Wish for Lower Prices."

When the left-hand lane finally cleared, I saw Alicia's car, a stripe of blue sinking over the horizon.

Turning off the highway onto the 270 loop, I began to calm down. I knew where she lived. I didn't need to follow her. I could simply meet her there. But when I took the familiar turn off Kingshighway onto Dalecarlia and looked for the blue Delta 88 in the driveway, it had not arrived.

I pulled up in front, cut the engine, and waited. Seven-thirty. The sun was long gone, the last light of dusk about to fade. Perhaps she had stopped at a liquor store to buy some wine. I waited five minutes, then ten, then half an hour. Maybe she had been hungry and had gone to a pizza place or somewhere else along the way to pick up dinner.