The Patron Saint of Lost Dogs: A Novel (33 page)

I feel a strange and paradoxical, but gratifying thrill at being compared to Bobby Cobb. I know that Ginny means it as the best of compliments, and I decide that yes, it is just that.

I came here prepared for a tongue-lashing. Did I ever misjudge how today’s conversation with Ginny would turn out? Of course she never answered Lewis’s call. She’s heartbroken and hiding from the world. And yet here she is, practically thanking me for being rude enough to end her engagement.

I want to ask her what happened to Steven and why he had it in for Chelsea. Maybe he resented the competition for Ginny’s affection. More likely he had his eye on the money sidelined for Chelsea’s long-term health care, which would have cut into his own inheritance.

“Here,” I say, arms outstretched, “let me have a look at her. See how she’s doing.”

I decline the offer of coffee and for ten more minutes I try to examine Chelsea as she crawls around my neck and shoulders, a squirming furry boa, loving the attention and feeling good. Ginny did a fine job with the subcutaneous fluids. Chelsea’s normal hydration is fully restored.

The two of them escort me to the front door. “If you’re having trouble getting her to eat her special diet, give me a call and I’ll see if we can change the brand or the flavors. Improve what’s on the menu.”

“Thanks. And thanks for stopping by. We’ll see you later.”

I catch this last remark as I’m halfway to the truck. Was that simply a throwaway line, a variation on “have a nice day”? To my surprise, in spite of the cold, they’re still standing at the door, waiting to see me off .

I wave another good-bye, climb into the cab, turn the engine over, find first gear, and that’s when I discover I’m stuck. Oh, the engine’s whining and the wheels are spinning but forward movement requires traction, which is problematic for a vehicle with bald tires wedged within a series of deep icy ruts akin to chiseled blocks of granite.

I get out to inspect the problem, see the front door close, and a minute later Ginny has joined me. She’s in a winter coat and gloves, and she’s brought a bag of ice melt.

“If you switch back and forth between forward and reverse, you can usually rock your way out.”

“I’d try, but I’ve got no reverse. It doesn’t work.”

Ginny looks at me, unflustered, in control, sleeves rolled up like Rosie the Riveter. “Put it in neutral and we’ll see if we can do it with muscle.”

I do as I’m told, ready to steer and push from the driver’s side while Ginny comes around on the open passenger side. She calls “one, two, three” across the front seats and together we push, the wheels rolling up the side of their icy chocks. Ginny screams to push harder. I grunt and drive and then there’s a moment when I know we’ve hit the point of no return and the wheels are going to climb up and over and out.

Ginny’s smiling and this time there’s teeth and gums and satisfaction. “Sometimes there’s no going backward.” She closes the passenger-side door and taps the hood twice before heading back to the house.

I’m at the end of the long driveway when I wonder whether she was referring to her own future or whether she was using the truck as a cheap and clumsy metaphor for my past.

My cell phone rings.

“Where are you?”

It’s Doris. Nice introduction—obviously she’s still in bad-debt mode.

“Coming back from Ginny Weidmeyer’s.”

“Good. Cause there’s someone in your exam room.”

“I’ve got a client already?” I check my watch. It’s just after four. Evening appointments don’t start until four thirty, if they start at all.

“Said it was important. Needs to speak to you in private.”

Finally. It must be Brendon Small. “Excellent. Have him stay put. I’ll be right there.”

“Is he still in there?” I ask.

Doris considers me from behind her desk.

“Does
he
have a name?”

Will she ever stop narrowing her eyes and easing her head away from me whenever I ask her a question?

“Refused to give it. Said this is a private not a professional matter.”

Then another peril slams an open palm against my forehead. What if it’s Steven the gold digger, back to make good on his promise,
you’re so dead
? I scan the parking lot, looking for a black Range Rover with a vanity plate. I don’t see it.

“Okay, Doris, please pay attention to what I have to say.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“If you hear the sound of two men coming to blows from behind that door I need you to dial 911. Am I clear?”

Her eyes roll upward. Her nod of understanding is more like the wobble of a bobble-head toy. I pivot, pad toward the exam room, hover for a second, and realize that I’ve never been in a minor altercation, let alone a fistfight. When I was physically escorted off the premises at McCall and Rand, caught up in my most animated, most agitated state, it was still little more than a heated oral exchange. Experience at getting hot under the collar won’t be much use when I need a right hook to the temple.

I open the examination room door and step into the ring.

“You’ve got a nerve.”

He’s all teeth and sneering lips, already moving in, and I turn my back on him to make sure the door is shut. There’s a rush of relief at who it is and I can feel the breathlessness, the flutter inside my chest starting to subside, but I don’t want to let it go. So I focus on what matters: an innocent golden retriever, on Anne and Emily and what they’ve been through. I welcome the angry buzz rebounding in my veins and turn to face Brendon Small.

“I could say the same about you.”

He’s in jeans and an open navy blue parka and he’s slapping a woolen hat in the palm of his hand as if it’s a billy club. There’s a mixture of emotions written across his face, and I can’t tell which one is winning, anger or angst.

“I wouldn’t be here if you could take a hint. Where do you get off, calling my house, hassling my wife in my own kitchen?”

I’ve thought a lot about this exchange and I’m feeling armed and dangerous.

“Where do
you
get off sending me anonymous threats?” There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, an ugly upward curl to the corner of his mouth, enough to confirm his guilt. “Where do you get off insisting I destroy a dog without your wife’s knowledge, behind her back and, more importantly, behind your daughter’s back?”

“Stepdaughter.” He spits out the word like he wants to make sure I appreciate how this doe-eyed little girl is not of his seed.

“There was nothing wrong with Frieda. She may have been old (I rehearsed using the past tense) but her bladder was in perfect working order. Yes, there’s a stain on the kitchen floor, right in front of the refrigerator, and this may have been her favorite spot to hang out, but you and I know exactly what happened the morning after you brought her here to be put to sleep.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m betting you’re the first one up at your house. Feed the dog, let her outside, bring the wife a coffee.”

Brendon Small says nothing.

“Every morning you’d find that puddle in front of the fridge and you’d scold that dog, maybe you’d hit her …”

“I never hit her.”

“… and you’d wipe up the mess and swear you were going to get rid of her once and for all. And then, after a long day, another job rejection, and a skin-full of consolatory beers, you finally snapped and brought her to me. I like to think a part of you struggled with what you asked me to do. But maybe I’m being too kind. Next morning you woke up, went downstairs, and couldn’t believe your eyes. That puddle of clear liquid you consistently blamed on Frieda was still there, exact same spot in front of the fridge, even though Frieda was gone. That’s when you realized what you had done. Killed an innocent dog because the faucet on your water dispenser was broken. You and Anne and Emily probably use it enough during the day that the leak doesn’t overflow, but for those eight to ten hours at night, the drips keep coming, and by the next morning you’ve got yourself a puddle of fake urine.”

Mr. Small brings a thumb and forefinger up to his nose, wiping the tip. “You’ve no idea what I’m dealing with.”

“No, I don’t. But this urinary incontinence thing was nothing more than an excuse to have her put to sleep. It’s not the real reason.”

“Huh. Now you know what I think?”

“Of course not. But I do know what it’s like to be a child who feels slighted by someone I look up to, by someone I need to be a parent, by someone I want to love.”

It’s like the air goes out of him. He deflates, his body sagging a little. The beat of his woolen billy club suspended, he slowly drops his head and closes his eyelids. He looks spent, as though he’s been ten rounds and he’s ready to throw in the towel.

“Look, I never wanted kids, never have, but if you fall in love with the wrong woman, what’re you gonna do?”

He keeps his head down, refusing to make eye contact. I hear the chime of the shopkeeper’s bell. Another client?

“I’ve tried, but there’s no instruction manual on how to get this right. I wanted to be a friend, to respect the memory of her father, but that dog was a constant reminder of him and what they had together. It’s like we couldn’t start over, begin as a new family, until Frieda was gone. I thought I could justify her being out of our life, because now she had a problem and chances were, given her age, it was something bad.”

“And what were you going to tell Emily or your wife?”

“I wasn’t going to tell them anything. That’s why I’m here. Yeah, I dug into your past on the Internet, but I don’t want to cause trouble. I just need you to keep quiet, to never call or come over again. I made a mistake. A big one, but please, give me a chance to be a stepfather.”

“You didn’t answer my question. What are they going to think happened to Frieda?”

“I don’t know. She went missing. She knew she was dying and went off to die alone. She got lost and died in the cold. You and I are the only ones who know the truth, and at least we both know she didn’t suffer.”

The shopkeeper’s bell rings again and then again and again. What’s going on out there?

“Answer me this, and I urge you to think very carefully about what you say next. Knowing what you know about the broken fridge, knowing how it felt to walk out of this practice alone, how it felt pretending to help your wife and … daughter … look for a missing dog, did you ever wish you could turn back the clock, still have Frieda and try again?”

He hesitates, and then his head snaps back and we lock eyes. “This parent. The one that let you down as a kid, did you make up? Did you learn to forgive?”

It’s a perfectly timed punch under my chin. My turn to rock back on my heels.

“Yes. Yes I did. But I left it way too late because I never took the time to understand him and see how, in his own unique way, he really loved me.”

I grind my molars together. After fourteen years, my dam of emotional suppression is up for another pounding, and I pray I can overpower the tears welling in my eyes. I stare back as hard as I can, willing my lids not to blink.

“Then my answer is yes. Yes. I wish I could take it back. Frieda’s been gone for nearly a week and nothing has changed. I’m still unemployed. My house is still underwater, and we’re still just as disconnected as a family. Now that I’m on this side, now that I can look back, I can see that this was never about a dog. My wife says I’m overwhelmed, I’m afraid of the responsibility, I’m jealous, all of the above. I know Emily misses her dad. I need to find a way to deal with her missing him, and getting rid of Frieda wasn’t the answer.”

Off in the waiting room I can hear the sound of conversation. And it sounds like a crowd.

The other door in the exam room, the one marked
PRIVATE
, swings open without a knock, and there’s Lewis.

“Ah, there you are. Excellent timing.”

I look at Lewis, look back at Brendon Small. “Excuse me, Mr. Small, I need to have a word with Dr. Lewis, in private.” I usher Lewis back into the main work area.

“Is that Frieda’s owner?”

“Yes,” I say.

“But that’s perfect. In fact, it couldn’t be better.”

Lewis darts over to the examination room to poke his head around the door. “Stay right where you are, Mr. Small. Be with you in a minute.” Message delivered, he bounces back to me to ask, “Did you catch the article this morning?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The
Gazette
. Greer’s article. It came out this morning.”

I’m speechless.

“Praising you up and down over your handling of Tina the cat and Denise Laroche’s untimely labor, but then he tosses in his coup de grâce, the promotional concept that no pet owner in Eden Falls could possibly ignore.”

I’m still dumbstruck.

“A free health examination.”

“A what?”

“Think about it. What’s the one thing guaranteed to get people walking through our front door? The offer of something of value that is totally free. In fact Ginny Weidmeyer has been gracious enough to have the event catered—beer, wine, little meaty and cheesy things with crackers.”

“Whoa, there. Event? Ginny Weidmeyer. She’s in on this?”

Lewis beams.

“And don’t you need a license or something to serve alcohol?”

“Course not. So long as you invite the Chief of Police.”

“But Lewis, free exams?”

Lewis sighs, the old man frustrated because I’m not keeping up.

“You and I examine their pets at no cost to the client. You get to meet a lot of new people. You get to know their animals, and you get to offer friendly advice about their pet’s health care. Chances are you’re going to pick up on a few minor ailments, make helpful suggestions about things to watch out for, things you would recommend doing in the future. And where do you think those people are going to go for follow-up on these particular recommendations?”

It’s the teaser that gets the buyer into the showroom. They get to kick some tires and see what’s on offer, rather than never stopping by. Greer’s a smart man.

“That’s all very well but we need money right now. Today. We’re out of time and ‘free’ isn’t going to cut it.”

Lewis makes no attempt to hide how much he’s loving this, showing off, not worrying that chipped incisor. “Calm yourself. Doris and I are on it.”