The Mountaintop School for Dogs and Other Second Chances (35 page)

Uh-oh, thought Mrs. Auberchon, as she realized what was happening. I'm not helping. I'm making this worse.

And Evie said, “I'm killing Giant George. I'm finding his address and I'm taking a plane and I'm killing him. I'll drown him in that backyard pool for not
telling
me. I mean, they're nuns? How was I supposed to know they're nuns?”

“Ex,” Mrs. Auberchon said. Personally, she didn't care who told what to whom, or didn't. And she wasn't going to make even one tiny comment about Giant George, or how every volunteer knew about the staffers, or how every other trainee who lasted more than a week had known about them too, usually by figuring it out on their own, plus putting together clues right in front of their eyes. Even guests of the inn who made the trek up the mountain for short visits were able to see what was what, especially if they were making donations and were invited to a meal in the hush of the dining room, or they'd had experiences with sisters in their own lives, and could tell right away. In fact, most people were not surprised at all when they found out.

And it was never a big deal. But Evie, Mrs. Auberchon knew, was not most people, and now she was all over the place inside herself, like a dog in Solitary who's just been let out—like Tasha, in fact, in her early Sanctuary days, all trouble and complications. Even if she'd only been in there ten minutes for an extremely necessary time-out, alone with herself, she'd come out glaring and mad at all humans and even madder at herself, for she always knew why she'd been in there to begin with. She'd rocket about in the hall and abruptly go into a sit and hang her head miserably, then she'd rocket about again, over and over and over, shrieking out barks as she ran, panting and whining in her sits. No one could go near her physically. Emotionally, she was also unreachable. She didn't care if she crashed into walls, had her legs slide out from under her, panted herself nearly breathless. To calm her down, while everyone on the mountain went into spasms of worry, Mrs. Auberchon had to sit at her computer with an extra feeling of confidence. In the right way, she had to speak the right words, special Tasha words, arrived at through trial and error: treats, eat, food, biscuit, jerky, chicken.

“I just remembered,” Evie was saying, “how Phyllis told me something about who they are, and I laughed. It was a thing when she was talking to me in sort of a meeting we had, never mind about what. She told me they're in a cloister, and I was, that is the funniest thing I ever heard. I thought she was making up a story.”

“It's not important,” said Mrs. Auberchon. “It doesn't matter.”

“It does. They think I'm an idiot. They think I'm borderline brain-dead.”

“They don't think any such thing. Let's go back to talking about my driving.”

“No thanks. I think Dora and I should go back up the mountain.”

“I disagree.”

Mrs. Auberchon stepped closer to Evie and patted her on the arm. When she used to watch those movies with Giant George, and she saw some horrible thing she didn't have time to close her eyes for, he put the movie on pause, and thought of a way to distract her. He'd tell her a story of a Sanctuary dog, or highlights of a rescue, or gossip he'd heard about a volunteer. She'd just remembered this. The important thing was to talk about another subject, which had to be interesting, or the distraction wouldn't work.

She took a deep breath. She could not believe she was deciding to comfort Evie by telling her the worst thing she'd ever wanted to do. She didn't take the time to get Evie ready for it. She plunged right in, so she wouldn't have the chance to change her mind. She had never told this to anyone before. But that was no reason not to tell it now. She felt the best thing to do was stay in her Warden's voice, but this time, she'd use it as if reading a book.

She said, “The reason I don't like driving is that one morning, when I was very upset, I wanted to run over my husband. Or my ex-husband, I should say.”

“You were
married?
”

Mrs. Auberchon did not let on that she was sighing inside herself because that was the first thing Evie thought of saying. “It was a long time ago,” she answered. “I used to have a car, but I sold it.”

“Oh my God,” said Evie. “What happened?”

“I was backing out of our driveway. He was near the end of it. He'd gone out to pick up the newspaper, and he was bending to pick it up. I could have called it an accident, you see. No one would know I knew exactly where he was. Ever since, I'm always a little afraid that whenever I have to drive, I'll remember that.”

“Like having a flashback?”

“Yes.”

“You must have been mad at him.”

“I was.”

“You must have had a reason.”

“I did.”

“Did you stop the car at the last minute, or was he still a ways away?”

“It wasn't a long driveway. It was the last minute.”

“Wow,” said Evie. “You were almost a murderer.”

“I never put it like that. But I suppose so, yes.”

Evie was looking at Mrs. Auberchon closely, straight on. A brightness had come into her eyes, and it was like seeing someone return to life. Her body was letting go of being so tense. She didn't seem to think that being taken into Mrs. Auberchon's confidence was unusual. She looked like she felt it was natural, as if people told her their worst things all the time, just blurting them out, without warning. And after the worst thing, what else was there to do but carry on with what you were supposed to be doing?

It was working! The distraction was working! Evie was snapping back to herself!

In the Jeep, Dora had decided that enough was enough with all this waiting. She chose that moment to let out loud, energetic yips, as if saying, Hello? Have you forgotten the most important one here is
me?

Evie laughed at her, and the laughing was the opposite of harsh and shrill and cold. She cried, “Hey, you little dog! Zip it!”

That made Dora go fully into her queenly Scottie self. She shook her head from side to side and furrowed up her whole face and yapped louder. Then she lowered her head and stared at the ground, eyeing it as somewhere she'd jump to. But the window wasn't rolled down enough for her to wiggle out.

“She's such an alpha,” Evie said to Mrs. Auberchon. “But I think she's having a flashback of when she was trapped by herself in that apartment. Do you think the pitties are having flashbacks right now? I bet they are. I bet their brains are
hurting,
just from
memories.
Probably they're afraid to fall asleep because of everything they know they'll be dreaming about.”

“Let's have a break from the pit bulls, Evie. And let's have a break from flashbacks. I would like very much to drive today without thinking about running someone over.”

Meanwhile, Dora was upright on the driver's seat, yapping her head off, her paws on the top rim of the window glass. She seemed to believe she'd be able to push it hard enough to widen the opening.

“I think she needs to pee,” said Evie. “So okay, we can have some breaks. I guess we'd better stop talking.”

“I'll get my coat,” said Mrs. Auberchon. “And my purse.”

She hurried to her room. She'd thrown her coat on her bed. She grabbed it, grabbed her purse. Then she went to her computer to turn it off. In her absence, it switched to her screen saver. She'd forgotten she set it up with a new image. Looking at her was Rocky, attached to a wall, waiting for he didn't know what, with the beautiful watery suggestions in his fur, like waves and sea foam. She didn't have a date of arrival. Just, soon. She didn't know if someone in the Network would deliver him to the inn, or if she'd have to use the Jeep to get him at a pickup point. Would he need a new collar? He probably would. And a food bowl! A water bowl! And oh my God, food and treats! She hadn't even thought of these things! And chew toys! A dog bed! A brush! A leash!

She put on her coat. She put her purse on her arm. She turned to leave, but turned back, and went to the wall where she'd hung up her list. She yanked it down so hard, the tack that held it popped out and fell to the floor. She had to find it and pick it up. You cannot have tacks lying around a room a dog will enter.

She found it. She put it in a drawer and balled up the list and tossed it at her wastebasket. She missed the shot. But she'd have to leave it for later. Outside, Dora was terrier-barking and Evie was calling to her, impatiently, bark-like, at the top of her lungs.

“Mrs. Auberchon, hurry up! Come!”

In the thirty-five years I've been writing and publishing novels, I've been lucky in many ways to work with excellent editors and publishing teams, but I have to say that with
Mountaintop
, my past experiences were practice for the best one I've ever had. My team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt blends solid professionalism with plain old human caring, warmth, passion, and commitment.

My editor, Jenna Johnson, entered the world of my novel not as an overbearing visitor or outside consultant (I've had those types), but as a partner who came to live there for a while, bringing her keen intelligence, insightfulness, wit, and natural ability to make a writer end up saying
I'm better than I was before she edited me.
And I'm hugely grateful that everyone behind my book, in production, promotion, sales, and social media, made me glad for their energy and attentiveness, and a belief in
Mountaintop
that has been, to me, probably because I live in coastal Maine, a tide that came in when the book was in manuscript, and has shown no sign of ever going out. Thank you especially Stephanie Kim, Hannah Harlow, Chelsea Newbould, Nina Barnett, Chrissy Kurpeski, Lisa Glover, Liz Anderson, and Carla Gray. To my copy editor, Margaret Wimberger, with whom I spent many happy hours absorbed in repairs and grammar-geek stuff, I have only one comment: I can't wait to do it again next time.

I've dedicated
Mountaintop
to my agent, Joy Harris, and I hope it covers at least some of my gratefulness for everything she's done as the engine powering it forward. From the moment she finished reading the first draft and called to say “I love it,” I've felt her strength and conviction as forces I've come to rely on, even take for granted. One way or another, her presence is with me all the time.

When I was first gathering myself to write what I was only so far calling “a novel with dogs,” I had the accidental good fortune to connect with a longtime rescuer who belongs to a secret group involved in kidnapping chronically abused dogs, often at great risk, when there are no legal, neighborly, or other possibilities. My gratitude is deep for the education I was able to receive, even though, like my main character Evie in her trainer-trainee learning, I often wished I was not finding out what I was finding out about real-life details of maltreatment of animals. But I don't think I'm writing fiction when I say I believe that for every abuser, there are many, many more rescuers.

It's impossible to list all the help I received from trainers, rescuers, shelter people, and adopters who shared their stories with me and trusted me to get them right. Over and over, no matter the specifics of the harm or the rescue, one thing came clear to me, with the beautiful shine of truth: a dog who has suffered at the hands of humans is always willing to give another human a chance. I'm deeply grateful to all the dog-people who made me less alone as I was writing this book, especially the two rescue groups my own dogs came from: Memphis Area Golden Retriever Rescue (MAGRR), who brilliantly and passionately run a program for Tennessee–to–New England adoptions, and Puppy Love, Inc., on Bailey Island here in Maine, founded and expertly run in partnership with rescuers in Louisiana and elsewhere in the South, with a mission to save dogs in high-kill shelters.

As I type the words “high-kill shelters,” my youngest dog, Maxine, a wire-haired terrier/retriever mix, is sleeping on her favorite blanket on the floor of my writing room. She is here because a volunteer rescuer removed her from a cage that was the only home she'd known. The rescue occurred not even one hour before she was scheduled, at the age of seven months, to be euthanized, because there are more homeless dogs in the world than people who think to adopt one, even though there are way more people than dogs. So, to Maxine's rescuer, and all rescuers, and everyone involved in rehabilitating and loving animals hurt by humans,
thanks.

 

E
LLEN
C
OONEY
is the author of
A Private Hotel for Gentle Ladies
and other novels. Her stories have appeared in
The New Yorker
and many literary journals. She has taught writing at MIT, Harvard, and Boston College, and now lives in Maine with her dogs Andy, Skip, and Maxine—who are each, in their own way, rescues.