Racing in the Rain (13 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

T
he morning after Eve's burial, I could barely move. My body was so stiff, I couldn't even stand, and Denny had to look for me because I usually got up immediately and helped him with breakfast. I was eight years old, two years older than Zoë. While I was still too young to suffer an arthritic condition in my hips, that's exactly what I suffered from. It was an unpleasant condition, yes. But in a sense it was a relief that I could concentrate on my own difficulties rather than dwell on other things. Specifically, Zoë being stranded with the Twins.

The day after Eve's funeral, Denny took me to the vet. He was a thin man who smelled of hay, and who had a bottomless pocket full of treats. He felt my hips and I tried not to wince, but I couldn't help myself when he squeezed certain places. He diagnosed me, prescribed medication, and said there was nothing else he could do. Except, someday in the future, perform expensive surgery to replace my defective parts.

Denny thanked the man and drove me home.

“You have arthritis in your hips,” he said to me.

If I'd had fingers, I'd have shoved them into my ears until I burst my own eardrums. Anything to avoid hearing.

“Arthritis,” he repeated, shaking his head in amaze-
ment.

I shook my head, too. With my diagnosis, I knew, would come my end. Slowly, perhaps. Painfully, without a doubt; marked by the signposts laid out by the veterinarian. The visible becomes inevitable. The car goes where the eyes go. I thought of Eve and how quickly she embraced her death once the people around her agreed to it. I considered the foretelling of my own end and I tried to look away.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

T
he charges of criminal neglect were dropped, as Mark Fein had promised, but the temporary restraining order and the civil custody suit were still in place, which meant Denny didn't get to see Zoë at all for several months. Maxwell and Trish filed a motion to terminate Denny's right to custody of any kind, since he was clearly an unfit parent.

Well. We all play by the same rules. But some people spend more time reading those rules and figuring out how to make them work in their behalf.

I have seen movies that involve stolen children and the grief and terror that the parents feel when their children are taken by strangers. Denny felt every bit of that grief. And, in my own way, I did, too. And we knew where Zoë was. We knew who had taken her. And, still, we could do nothing.

Mark Fein suggested it would be a bad idea to tell Zoë about the legal proceedings. He suggested that Denny invent a story about driving race cars in Europe to explain his prolonged absence. Mark Fein also negotiated a letter exchange: notes and drawings made by Zoë would be delivered to Denny. And Denny could write letters to his child, as long as he agreed to allow those letters to be reviewed by the Twins before they were shown to Zoë. I will tell you, every vertical surface in our house was decorated with Zoë's delightful artwork.

As much as I wanted Denny to act, I respected his restraint. Denny has long admired the legendary driver Emerson Fittipaldi. “Emmo,” as he was called, was a champion of great stature. Not only did Emmo never panic, Emmo never put himself in a position where he might have to. Like Emmo, Denny never took unnecessary risks.

While I, too, admire and try to emulate Emmo, I still think that I would like to drive like Ayrton Senna, full of emotion and daring. I would like to have driven by Zoë's school one day to pick her up unannounced, and then headed directly for Canada, where we could live by ourselves in peace for the rest of our lives.

But it was not my choice. I was not behind the wheel. No one thought about me. Which is why they all panicked when Zoë asked her grandparents if she could see me. You see, no one had accounted for my whereabouts. The Twins immediately called Mark Fein, who immediately called Denny.

“Tell her of course she can see Enzo,” Denny said calmly. “Enzo is staying with Mike and Tony while I'm in Europe; Zoë likes them, and she'll believe it. I'll have Mike bring Enzo over on Saturday.”

And that's what happened. In the early afternoon Mike picked me up and drove me over to Mercer Island, and I spent the afternoon playing with Zoë on the great lawn. Before dinnertime, Mike returned me to Denny.

“How did she look?” Denny asked Mike.

“She looked terrific,” Mike said. “She has her mother's smile.”

“They had a good time together?” asked Denny.

“A fantastic time,” replied Mike. “They played all day.”

“Fetch?” Denny asked, thirsty for details. “Did she use the Chuckit? Or did they play chase? Eve never liked it when they played chase.”

“No, mostly fetch,” Mike said kindly. “You know,” Mike said, “sometimes they just flopped down on the grass and cuddled together. It was really sweet.”

Denny wiped his nose quickly. “Thanks, Mike,” he said. “Really. Thanks a lot.”

“Anytime,” Mike said.

I appreciated Mike's effort to appease Denny, even though he was avoiding the truth. Or maybe Mike didn't see what I saw. Maybe he couldn't hear what I heard. Zoë's profound sadness. Her loneliness. Her whispered plans that she and I would somehow smuggle ourselves off to Europe and find her father.

That summer without Zoë was very painful for Denny. In addition to feeling isolated from his daughter, he felt his career was derailed. Though he was offered the opportunity to drive again, he was forced to decline, as the pending criminal case demanded that he remain in the state of Washington at all times. He was a prisoner of the state.

And yet.

I won't say he created the situation, but he allowed it. Because he needed to test his mettle. He wanted to know how long he could keep his foot on the accelerator before lifting. He chose this life, and therefore he chose this battle.

And I realized, as the summer matured and I frequently visited Zoë without Denny, that I was a part of this, too. I was an important part. Because on those late Saturday afternoons in July, Denny would sit with me on the back porch and quiz me. “Did you play fetch? Did you tug? Did you chase?” He would ask, “Did you cuddle?” He would ask, “How did she look? Is she eating enough fruit? Are they buying organic?”

I tried. I tried as hard as I could to form words for him, but they wouldn't come. I tried to beam my thoughts into his head. I tried to send him the pictures I saw in my mind. I twitched my ears. I cocked my head. I nodded. I pawed. Until he smiled at me and stood.

“Thanks, Enzo,” he would say on those days. “You're not too tired, are you?”

I would stand and wag. I'm never too tired.

“Let's go, then.”

He would grab the Chuckit and the tennis ball and walk me down to the Blue Dog Park. There we would play fetch until the light grew thin and the mosquitoes came out of hiding, thirsty for their dinner.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

T
here was an occasion that summer when Denny found a teaching engagement in Spokane and asked if the Twins could take me for the weekend; they agreed, as they had grown accustomed to my presence in their home.

I would much rather have gone to racing school with Denny, but I understood that he depended on me to take care of Zoë. Also to act as some kind of a witness on his behalf. Though I could not relate to him the details of our visits, my presence, I think, reassured him in some way.

On a Friday afternoon, I was delivered by Mike into Zoë's waiting embrace. She immediately ushered me into her room, and we played a game of dress-up together. I knew my role as jester in Zoë's court, and I was happy to play the part.

That evening Maxwell took me outside earlier than usual, urging me to “get busy.” When I came back inside, I was led to Zoë's room, which already had my bed in it. Apparently, she had requested I sleep with her. I curled into a ball and quickly dozed off.

A bit later, I woke. The lights were dim. Zoë was awake and active, encircling my bed with piles of her stuffed animals.

“They'll keep you company,” she whispered to me as she surrounded me.

Seemingly hundreds of them. All shapes and sizes. I was being surrounded by teddy bears and giraffes, sharks and dogs, cats and birds and snakes. She worked steadily and I watched, until I was buried in stuffed animals. I found it somewhat amusing and touching that Zoë cared to share me with her animals in that way. I drifted off to sleep feeling protected and safe.

I awoke later in the night and saw that the wall of animals around me was quite high. Still, I was able to shift my weight and change position to make myself more comfortable. But when I did, I was shocked by a frightening sight. One of the animals. The one on top. Staring straight at me. It was the zebra.

The replacement zebra. The one she had chosen to fill in for the demon that had dismantled itself before me so long ago. The horrifying zebra of my past. The demon had returned. And though it was dark in the room, I know I saw a glint of light in its eyes.

As you can imagine, my sleep was sparse that night. The last thing I wanted was to awaken amid animal destruction because the demon had returned. I forced myself to stay awake; yet I couldn't help but drift off. Each time I opened my eyes, I found the zebra staring at me. Like a gargoyle, it stood on a cathedral of animals above me, watching. The other animals had no life; they were toys. The zebra alone knew.

I felt sluggish all day, but I did my best to keep up, and I tried to catch up on my sleep by napping quietly. To any observer, I'm sure I gave off the impression of being quite contented. But I was anxious about nightfall, concerned that, once again, the zebra would torture me with its mocking eyes.

That afternoon, as the Twins took their alcohol on the deck, as they tended to do, and Zoë watched television in the TV room, I dozed outside in the sun. And I heard them.

“I know it's for the best,” Trish said. “But still, I feel badly for him.”

“It's for the best,” Maxwell said.

“I know. But still . . .”

“He didn't pick Zoë up when he should have,” Maxwell said sternly. “On not just one, but several occasions. He endangered her life with his reckless driving, and he caused her to get frostbite, which can cause
permanent
nerve damage! What kind of a father is he?”

I lifted my head from the warm wood of the deck and saw Trish cluck and shake her head.

“What?” Maxwell demanded.

Trish said, “From what I hear, it was a big misunder-
standing.”

“What you hear!” Maxwell blurted. “He didn't!”

“I know, I know,” said Trish. “It's just that this has all gotten blown out of proportion.”

“Are you suggesting that he is a good father?”

“No,” Trish said. “But didn't you exaggerate the situation because you were certain we wouldn't get custody of Zoë?”

“I don't care about any of that,” Maxwell said, waving her off. “He wasn't good enough for Eve, and he's not good enough for Zoë. And if he's stupid enough to devote so much time to that car racing that he forgets about his own daughter, then I'm going to seize the moment. Zoë will have a better childhood with us. She will have a better moral raising, a better financial raising, a better family life, and you know it, Trish. You know it!”

“I know, I know,” she said, and sipped her amber drink with the bright red cherry drowned at the bottom of the glass. “But he's not a bad person.”

He poured his drink down his gullet and slapped the glass down on the teak table.

“It's time to start dinner,” he said, and he went inside.

I was stunned. I had been suspicious since the beginning. But to hear the words, the coldness in Maxwell's tone. Imagine this. Imagine having your wife die suddenly of a brain cancer. Then imagine having her parents attack you mercilessly in order to gain custody of your daughter. Imagine that they exploit allegations of neglect against you. Then they hire very expensive and clever lawyers because they have much more money than you have. Imagine that they prevent you from having any contact with your six-year-old daughter for months on end. And imagine they restrict your ability to earn money to support yourself and, of course, as you hope, your daughter. How long would you last before your will was broken?

They had no idea who they were dealing with. Denny would not kneel before them. He would never quit; he would never break.

With disgust, I followed them into the house. Trish began her preparations and Maxwell took his jar of peppers from the refrigerator; inside me, a darkness brewed. Contrivers. Manipulators. They were no longer people to me. They were now the Evil Twins. Evil, horrible people who stuffed themselves with burning hot peppers in order to fuel the fire in their stomachs. When they laughed, flames shot out of their noses. They were disgusting creatures.

My anger with the Evil Twins fed my thirst for revenge. And I was not above using the tools of my dogness to exact justice. I presented myself to Maxwell as he stuffed another pepper into his mouth and chewed it with the fake teeth he removed at night. I sat before him. I lifted a paw.

“Want a treat?” he asked me, clearly surprised by my gesture.

I barked.

“Here you go, boy.”

He extracted a pepper from the bottle and held it before my nose. It was a very large one, long and artificially green and smelling of chemicals. The devil's candy.

“I don't think those are good for dogs,” Trish said.

“He likes them,” Maxwell countered.

My first thought was to take the hot pepper and a couple of Maxwell's fingers with it. But that would have caused real problems. I likely would have been put to sleep before Mike could return to save me, so I didn't take his fingers. I did, however, take the pepper. I knew it was bad for me, that I would suffer immediate discomfort. But I knew my discomfort would pass, and I anticipated the unpleasant rebound effect, which is what I wanted. After all, I am just a stupid dog, unworthy of human scorn, without the brains to be responsible for my own bodily functions. A dumb dog.

I observed their dinner carefully because I wanted to see for myself. The Twins served Zoë some kind of chicken covered in a creamy sauce. They didn't know that while Zoë loved chicken cutlets, she never ate them with sauce, and certainly never with cream. When she didn't eat the string beans they served, Trish asked if she would like a banana instead. Zoë said yes and Trish made some banana slices. Zoë barely picked at them because they were crudely sliced and speckled with brown spots, which she always avoided.

And these agents of evil—these supposed grandparents!—thought Zoë would be better off with them! Bah! They didn't spend a moment thinking about her welfare; after dinner, they didn't even ask why she hadn't eaten the bananas. They allowed her to leave the table having eaten almost nothing. Denny never would have allowed that. He would have prepared for her something she liked so she would continue to grow in a healthy way.

All the while I watched, I seethed. And in my stomach, a foul brew steeped. When it was time to take me out that night, Maxwell opened the French door to the back deck and began his idiotic chanting: “Get busy, boy. Get busy.”

I didn't go outside. I looked up at him and I thought about what he was doing. How he was tearing our family apart for his own selfish purposes; I thought about how he and Trish were grossly inferior guardians for my Zoë. I crouched in my stance right there, inside the house, and I unleashed a massive, soupy, pungent pile of diarrhea on his beautiful, expensive, linen-colored Berber carpet.

“What the hell?” he shouted at me. “Bad dog!”

I turned and trotted cheerfully to Zoë's room.

“Get busy, boy,” I said as I left. But, of course, he couldn't hear me.

As I settled into my pile of stuffed animals, I heard Maxwell exclaim loudly and call for Trish to clean up my mess. I looked at the zebra, still perched on his throne of lifeless animal carcasses, and I growled at it very softly but very dangerously. And the demon knew. The demon knew not to mess with me that night.

Not that night, or ever again.