The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (19 page)

“You don’t have to take my word for it,” he says, as though I’m about to find out from another source. Then I remember my encounter with Ginny Weidmeyer. Perhaps I already did.

“But I want your word for it. I want to hear your thoughts, to know whether you think I misjudged him, whether you think I was wrong doing what I did?” Even as this hunger for answers gets away from me, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

Lewis maintains his composure. Maybe the old man has rehearsed for this moment.

“On the surface Bobby Cobb was as carefree, as affable a man as you will ever meet. Compassionate, great with the animals, and blessed with a knack for noting the minutiae in people’s lives. Didn’t matter who you were, he somehow knew to ask if your grandmother was feeling better, if the plumber fixed your pipes, if you ended up buying that new truck. Some might say it was a gift, the way he made you feel special, made you feel like he cared. But I think it was a trick, because what he was really doing was keeping the focus away from himself. I feel like Bobby Cobb made a huge mistake in not letting people into his life. Including you. He placed a premium on his privacy, pretty much to the point of self-inflicted exile.” Lewis hesitates. “Now who does that sound like?”

I should be outraged by this comparison, but I bite my tongue. I can tell Lewis isn’t waiting for an answer, he’s just waiting, letting me know it’s okay to open up. I don’t know what it is about him but I feel my defenses begin to slip.

“There was this one time, fall, senior year at boarding school, and I was in AP biology, which I loved, mainly because of my teacher, Ms. Collingwood. I’d see her walking the campus every evening with her yellow Lab, Darwin, and one night she asked me about her dog’s skin rash. She said she knew my father was a vet and maybe I’d seen something like it before. She seemed surprised that I didn’t have a clue, that I couldn’t offer any kind of suggestion. How could I? Cobb never let me hang out in his appointments. I felt embarrassed. No, I felt exposed. Best I could do was promise to find out. So I called home. Naturally he was busy, so I left messages, and when Cobb finally got back to me it was the middle of the night. It was the only time I called him out on feeling second best to his patients and his work. And worst of all, I was totally calm. I reckon Cobb could have brushed off anger, but I wanted to hurt him. Sometimes evidence-based criticism is the best way to leave a mark.

“A few days later I received a letter. It was an apology, of sorts, but it was overshadowed by the answer to my question about the dog’s skin rash. There was a list of more questions, suggestions on tests to perform, possible results and diagnoses these results might generate. This unseen dog had become another of his patients, and once again Cobb was throwing himself into Darwin’s problem in a way he never threw himself into me. In the time it took to read this letter I left behind resentment and jealousy and settled on something just as painful. Disappointment.”

Lewis waits a moment, making sure I’m done. “So you didn’t really get angry at him until … until your mother’s death.”

I look away, concede a nod but nothing more. Definitely time for a change of subject. “Did he confide in Doris? She seems …”

“What?”

“Well … enamored.”

“Doris may have worshipped your father, but as far as I know there was never another woman in his life after Ruth.”

I can believe that. The Doc Cobb I knew was way too busy with work to go chasing after women.

“If he did share secrets about me, with Doris, they weren’t pleasant. She already got in a dig about me not being at my mother’s funeral.”

“Have you been to her grave?”

“No.”

Too late I realize I should have said “not yet.”

“It’s a beautiful spot,” he says and grabs me by the upper arms. “You need to go.”

How strange, this funny little man with his bow ties and his ridiculous head of steely hair, and a grip tight enough to squeeze muscle like he wants to throttle me. He looks up, unblinking, trying to peek inside, as though he might find what’s missing and make a grab for it.

“You need to go.”
There’s a biting sincerity in his voice. This is not a casual suggestion. But then again, it’s not an order. It feels heartfelt, wrapped in wisdom, and its novelty pierces me. If I had to guess, this must be the kind of friendly advice you get from a concerned father figure.

I’m gawking, and he’s kind enough to bail me out. “Doris will warm to you,” he says, “it’s just going to take some …” Lewis stops short, knowing he’s made a mistake, knowing time is precisely what he doesn’t have.

I close my eyes and wince with guilt for wanting to sell up and run back to Charleston. On the inside of my lids my mind projects a black-and-white image, Humphrey Bogart as Rick in
Casablanca
.
You’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life
.

Softly, I dare to ask, “Why didn’t you tell me about Mrs. Lewis?”

Lewis weakens his grip, finds his trademark smile, and for me, this only makes matters worse.

“You’ve got more than enough on your plate.”

“The fresh sheets on my bed, the prepared food in the fridge, the haircut, the night out.”

“Guilty. Though I meant no harm by it.”

“But why?”

“Bobby took me on to help keep the practice going, so there was something left to pass on to you. But I had my own motives. My wife’s dying, Cyrus. Over the past few years I’ve blown through our savings, including the money from the sale of my practice in Patton. She loves the place she’s in right now. Loves the nurses. It’s ridiculously expensive, but thanks to Bedside Manor, or should I say, thanks to you, it’s covered.”

I flash back to my visit from the detestable Mr. Critchley.
Your health insurance costs are ridiculous
.

“Last thing I wanted to do was to add my wife’s name to your list of problems. We’ll be fine. If she needs to be moved to a Medicaid facility then we’ll deal with it, if and when that happens.”

No self-pity, no hostility, just the way it is. Then he finishes me off with “you need to focus on what’s right for you.”

It’s too much. Clearly Lewis’s plate is heaped pretty high. No way I can burden him with my anonymous news article. I take a step back, study the floor, and score a line in the sawdust with my shoe. Desperate to make this stop, I begin to babble. “I’ve got Doris working on the bad debt. I reckon she’d know which clients are stalling, hoping we’ll go out of business before we send them to collections.”

Lewis recognizes the shift in me, knows we’re back on safer territory, but he still seems pleased, as though he got a lot further than he expected. “Good, but right now I’d try to make the most of your interview with Peter Greer. Be honest about the way the practice is struggling. Oh, and be careful around his dog.”

“What’s wrong with his dog?”

“He’s fine. Bit like the Guardian of Hades but otherwise fine. Focus on Greer. He’ll help you out.” He pauses. “If that’s what you really want?”

Lewis has got to me, and I feel an overwhelming need to clarify my situation. “This thing about making money,” I say, “it’s only so I can sell the practice and pay my bills. It’s not as though I’m hoping to live the high life.”

“Of course,” says Lewis. “Why do you think I believe so completely in your innocence over losing your license? The man who’s prepared to lose everything is the man who’s telling the truth. Besides, I bet the concept of money never once crossed your mind when you were delivering that kitten. Why would it? Doesn’t matter who it is or what it is, providing care and the act of caring is an emotion, and emotions can only be given away. Never bought. What you discovered last night is pretty much priceless.”

He’s killing me. Time to shut him down. “So what’s with the headmaster’s wife, Crystal Haggerty?”

Lewis deliberates. “She’s … gregarious.”

“That’s the best you’ve got.”

“What were you hoping for?”

“I don’t know, promiscuous, immoral, sly. She claims to have friends in Charleston, says she’s going to have them look me up.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Crystal Haggerty is all bluff and bluster. She’s bored and lonely, what with her husband always out of town at some conference or other. Yes, she likes to flirt and she’s used to getting her way, but she’s no femme fatale. Maybe your southern charisma will make her pay her bills on time.”

I ignore that one and make a show of checking my watch. “I have to be going if I’m going to sort out Frieda before I meet with Greer.”

“Of course. Here you go.” He hands over the collection of poles and the blade.

“Thanks,” I say and, though I’m referring to our conversation and him bringing me down here, I still add, “for the roof rake.”

“You’re welcome.” Lewis stares into me, cracks a smile, and I know he understands.

In the absence of Google I make do with a telephone directory and a tattered road map to find my way to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Brendon Small. There’s nothing fancy here—a cul-de-sac of ranch-style homes, chain-link rather than picket fences, remnants of busy multicolored Christmas lights, competitive snowmen on the front yards, and bad-insulation icicles hanging off gutters like crystal stalactites. I park the truck at the bottom of their driveway. I could blame my lack of a reverse gear but I’d be lying. Truth is, I’m prepared for a quick getaway.

The driveway is a neat rectangle of dry asphalt. Too neat. There is not a patch of residual snow anywhere, and the driveway is lined with precise, Grand Canyon snow walls carved by an experienced snowblower. Clearly the work of a man with far too much free time on his hands.

I take a deep breath and drop down from the truck, marching with purpose. The cold makes my eyes cry tears that instantly dry stiff on my cheeks.
Focus on the mission: return the dog, make sure she’s going to be safe, confirm Small is behind the newspaper article, and brace for the possibility of confrontation
.

Standing on a pineapple welcome mat, I ring the doorbell. Only now, at this very second, do I ask myself,
What am I going to do if Brendon Small doesn’t answer the—

“Can I help you?”

I recognize the woman as the one putting up posters, of course. I take in the Red Sox sweatshirt, kind eyes, pixie nose, and short auburn hair with gray feathering in the middle of her center parting.

“Um … hello … good evening … I’m Cyrus Mills, Dr. Cyrus Mills. I work at the animal clinic in town. Bedside Manor. You may have heard of it.”

“Yes.” And then, as though my presence at this point makes perfect sense, she screams, “Oh my God, you found Frieda?”

Her excitement takes me by surprise.

“Um … no. No, I didn’t find Frieda.” Suddenly I become conscious of not lying to her, of being factual and accurate about what I say, as though not perjuring myself any further might eventually count in my favor. Technically speaking I didn’t
find
Frieda. Frieda was
delivered
to me. But as I try to rationalize my misguided logic I see Anne Small jump to the only other conclusion possible. This is her worst-case scenario.

She staggers, dips a little at the knees, and clasps a hand to her mouth. Her sharp intake of air makes it sound as though she is being smothered.

“Mommy?” Emily is everything I imagined from our phone call—bright blue saucers for eyes, red apple cheeks, and long blond hair (though no symmetrical pigtails). From nowhere she appears at her mother’s side, and I’m not sure whether she’s been listening to our conversation. Not that it matters. What frightens her mother must be bad, and Emily responds with a trembling lower lip and a tear tumbling over a lower lid, her long blond lashes unable to keep it from falling. For a second, I remember being Emily’s age, just home from school, and Bobby Cobb looking up from his microscope saying, “Run this up to your mother, Son,” as he hands me a slide. Thrilled to be given this responsibility I carried it in my palm like a baby bird but at the top of the stairs I tripped, the slide shattering on the hardwood floor. When I looked up, through tears of frustration, I saw my mother standing over me, sharing the exact same expression of unconditional love now written on the face of Anne Small.

“Is … is Frieda dead?” asks Mrs. Small, putting her arm around Emily.

“No,” I say in a somewhat appalled tone before I can remind myself that I am not supposed to know whether their dog is dead or alive. “I mean, I don’t know. I just wanted to offer my support. I saw the posters around town. I thought it might help if I put one up in the practice.”

My words seem to rescue Anne, release her from her dread. “I’m so sorry. Please, do come in. It’s okay, honey. Mommy made a mistake. The doctor only wants to help us find Frieda. Isn’t that nice of him?”

Emily wipes away her tears with the back of her hand as I step across the threshold and find myself standing in a small foyer. There’s a den to my right, kitchen, dining room, and stairway to my left. The little girl looks up at the man who frightened her mommy. Her fear has twisted into a frown of distrust. I wonder if she has recognized my accent from our phone call.

“My husband says something’s not been right with Frieda for weeks. And we’ve been meaning to take her to a vet. Never thought I’d be dropping off a missing poster instead. Bedside Manor, right?”

I nod.

“I was there the other day. A woman took it, promised to put it up for me. I guess you’ve got a wall where you can hang pictures of lost dogs or dogs in need of a home.”

For a second, I wonder how Bobby Cobb, the Patron Saint of Lost Dogs, would have handled this particular situation. Then, in my mind’s eye, I see Doris, fabricating a smile before crushing the poster of Frieda in her quick talons as soon as Anne and Emily were out of sight.
If you don’t support this practice then this practice won’t support you
.

“You think she’s okay?” Emily asks. Her voice is small and without the confidence she had yesterday. It’s been well below zero for days. No way a domesticated animal could survive out there in the wild. The trouble is, if someone took her in, surely they’d call? Still, as Emily waits for my answer, I catch a glimmer of hope flickering in her bright blue eyes.