Trolls in the Hamptons (17 page)

Susan turned around and gave me a dirty look.

“What? I didn't say anything.” But I did vow to stop whining to myself, like poor Jerry. Or was that Ben? “What about Dad?” I asked. “Have you heard anything? I didn't want to call the hospital from the bus.”

Mom passed a loaded dump truck without looking in her rearview or side mirrors as far as I could tell, until she looked back at me. Maybe that's why the dogs were so anxious, driving around with her all day.

“I spoke to the doctor,” she told me, still looking backward instead of at the road ahead. “Everything went well. No problems. The old coot needs to watch his diet and cholesterol. He'll be fine.”

“Great. Then you won't be gone long.” In fact, maybe she did not need to go at all.

“But he must need someone with him for awhile,” Susan offered, helpful as always.

“A week, anyway, the doctor said. No lifting or bending. No stress. I'll do the driving.”

No stress? Oh, boy. I hope whatever stitches they put in were tight ones.

“By the way, Willow, I spoke to him after you did this morning, before the operation.”

“He was kind of groggy already.”

“He wouldn't let them take him to the OR until he gave me a message for you. One of the nurses had to dial.”

I leaned forward, so I could hear her over Ben's whining. Or was that Jerry? They kept changing places, pacing around their small enclosure. As soon as Mom was out of sight, I intended to put different colored ribbons on their collars. For now, I hoped they were only hungry and worried about getting home in one piece, not about to be sick. “What was the message?”

“That he remembered what he wanted to warn you about. He always was one for putting the fear of God into you. I swear that's why you—”

“What did he say?”

“Something about looking out for the undertow. As if you were stupid enough to go swimming in the ocean at this time of year. The lifeguards aren't even on duty yet and the water is still frigid. Do not take the dogs swimming, Willow. The salt is bad for their skin and makes them itchy.”

“Weren't poodles meant to be water dogs?”

“Ben and Jerry don't like it. Or the pool. Chlorine is worse for them. You'll need to hose them down if they do get wet. No, use the shower at the pool cabana; it has hot and cold water.”

Mother was going on about what else was bad for the dogs, but I was thinking about the undertow. I remembered the kid in
The World According to Garp
, how he interpreted the word as the Under Troll, the monster ready to suck him out to sea.

Did Dad know about Fafhrd? If my mother got the message straight, he hadn't said to beware of the undertow, but to watch out for it. Which could be like watch out for that speeding car with the drunk driver, or watch out for your baby cousin. I didn't think Fafhrd was any danger to me, but how was I supposed to look after a stone giant? If, of course, my father was clairvoyant.

“Did Dad say anything else?”

Mom waved her hand, which wasn't a great idea on the narrower road leading to Paumanok Harbor. Luckily not many cars were going the opposite way. “Your father is always finding things to worry about.” She sniffed to show her disdain. “He'd do better to worry about his heart and his health, the old fool, instead of rattling on about vague threats, just to unsettle a person. He told me not to eat anything on the plane. The cheapskates don't even serve food anymore. Oh, and he mumbled something about you not going out in a boat.”

I almost never went out on boats. If the bus could make me sick, imagine what a boat could do. So much for my father's prophesies of doom.

We drove through the center of town, where the library, the new arts and recreation center was, our own police station and firehouse, the post office and general store, a pharmacy, gas station, bank, and a couple of shops. The one real estate office was in someone's house; the beauty parlor was, too. Oh, and the general store sold thread, bread, and rubber flip-flops for less than five dollars. And bait. There were a few more stores and restaurants and bars—and bait shops—on the way to the docks, but we turned off before then.

Mom took the left onto our narrow street as if she owned it, right down the center at forty miles an hour. Well, I suppose Grandma did own it, since our family complex was up a private dirt drive, but customers used it, and occasionally a tourist made the wrong turn for the beach, one block north. The sandblasted sign at the corner listed Garland Farms, Eve Garland, Proprietor. That was my grandmother, with her herbs, preserves, and potions. Of course she did not call them potions, only special teas and cordials. Nor did she advertise tea leaf readings, but all the locals came for advice. She was the nearest thing Paumanok Harbor had to a shrink. Or a witch.

The next sign, this one from the sign maker in Montauk, advertised Rose Tate, Animal Behaviorist. She even had a degree in it. That was Mom, and people came from three states around with their maladjusted, misbehaving pets. If any of them—the owners, not the dogs—drove on Garland Drive the way Mom did, she'd double her fees, after lecturing the city-ites about children and dogs and stirring up dust on Grandma's crops. Then she'd lecture them about buying the wrong puppy, then ruining it. For some reason, they kept coming back. No, the reason they came back was their dogs were better behaved and happier after a few sessions with my mother.

The last sign was hand-painted and said J and R Richardson. Those were Susan's parents, Jasmine and Roger. Aunt Jas was a schoolteacher, and Uncle Roger managed the fields and the farm stand under Grandma's supervision.

I sighed. “I suppose I'll have to help at the farm until Uncle Roger gets better.” I'd done it every summer of my younger life, weeding, picking, sorting, then weighing and bagging at the shop once I was old enough to make change. I hated it. Worms, ticks, prickers—and Grandma—then heat and sun and boredom waiting for customers. My nose peeled all summer, no matter what foul-smelling stuff she forced me to put on it. But Grandma was in her seventies now, and I couldn't refuse to help.

“No, she hired some high school kids to mind the stand once school is out, and a handyman to do most of the heavy fieldwork. He needed a place to stay, so she's trading the attic room and meals for chores until Roger recovers.”

“She hired a stranger to live on the property? Grandma?”

“She read his leaves. And the dogs like him.” Those were enough for my mother. If the dogs liked an ax murderer, he couldn't be all bad.

“You'll see for yourself,” my mother said, taking the turn into Susan's driveway on two wheels. “We'll all have dinner at Eve's tonight.”

Susan declined the command invitation, the lucky dog. She claimed she wanted to get started at the restaurant to help Uncle Bernie. That was the least she could do, she said, after he'd kept up her insurance payments all these months. And she'd straighten up her own house before her parents returned; fix some meals for them to have while she was at the Breakaway. Maybe she'd drive to Stony Brook tomorrow if they weren't coming home.

“Or that man of Eve's could drive you.”

Sure, why not? Then Grandma'd most likely conscript me to pick strawberries, in between picking up dog poop. Grandma Eve adored Susan, always had, always would. She thought my cousin's cooking was a noble vocation, especially when Susan used the fresh ingredients from Garland Farms. She thought what I did was like feeding pig swill to children, rotting their minds.

We dropped Susan off at her house, then kicked up gravel as we left, without stopping at Mom's or Grandma's. “You can visit the Pom before dinner. He's getting better.”

Better than what? I wondered.

“And do not call him Nipper. He does not like it, and it gives him a complex. His name is Napoleon.”

“And naming him after the little emperor doesn't give him a complex?”

“A small dog needs a big name to give him confidence. I think the shelter meant to name him for the dessert, anyway. Sweet, with layers.”

Sweet was not a word I'd have used for a three-legged, six-pound, fluffy Cujo. “What about your other dogs?” Mom was always fostering a few shelter rescues until homes were found for them.

“Eve is taking in Dobbin and Shad. She'll feed them, and her new man Sean McBride agreed to put them out in our yard a couple of times a day, where they can't damage the plants. He is very helpful.”

I wondered if he was trying to get on my mother's good side. After all, she was a good-looking divorcée, with a house and a business of her own. No one had said how old the new help was. Or why he needed a place to stay, or what he did besides odd jobs. Hey, if he'd take on Nip—Napoleon, I'd be maid of honor.

“No, Sean cannot keep the Pom. He is not ready.”

Sean or Nappy? I wasn't ready, either. “Are you sure the dog can't go along with me to Rosehill?

“He digs. And marks. And gets jealous of other dogs. He does not like men, either.”

“And he bites.”

“Not hard.”

The poodles started barking hysterically when we skidded around a corner and tore up a hill toward a long driveway. Halfway up, Rosehill loomed like a castle, or a fortress. The whole place was big enough for a day camp or a small convention center. Instead, one rich guy rented it, and hardly used it. The estate used to belong to the same multimillionaire who'd donated the money for the new arts center, to help the community and house his own collection after he died. Now a charitable trust owned Rosehill. The phenomenal rents it brought in financed its upkeep as well as the arts building's. From what my mother told me, Mr. Parker and his movie empire could afford it.

Mom told me the combination for the gate and how to open the garage. I could use Rosehill's Escalade. Mom was going to leave her Outback at MacArthur Airport in Islip, so no one had to drive her or pick her up. Meaning me.

We fed the dogs, then walked them on the property—with plastic bags in our hands lest they foul the perfect sod lawn or the specimen plantings. Gardeners came in three times a week, Mom told me, and the pool cleaner once a week.

The dogs were a lot calmer now that they were fed, and seemed easy enough to manage. So was Mom. That is, she was less hurried now that the boys had their chow and walkies.

Mom knelt down and stared at both of the poodles. Lord knew what she told them, or what they told her, but she seemed satisfied. “They'll listen to you. You could try to listen to them, you know.”

It never worked for me. I heard them panting, that was all. Poor Mom, a dud for a daughter.

We made a tour of the house, which was mostly decorated in white emptiness, except for the screening room, the billiards room, and the orchid room, which was mostly glass. A specialist came every other week to tend to the plants.

The housekeeper's suite next to the kitchen pantry was bigger than my apartment. It even had a door out to a private deck and small fenced-in yard. According to my mother, the dogs were mostly kept here, with Cousin Lily, so they did not scratch the floors or dirty the white upholstery and rugs. Or shred the floor-length curtains, as they did once when they were left alone too long. They had crates in the pantry room, monogrammed beds in Aunt Lily's sitting room, and a basket of toys next to her bed. “Where the dogs do
not
sleep,” Mom reminded all three of us.

I wondered why the hell Mr. Parker kept dogs if he left them with the housekeeper, away from his living space. No wonder the boys needed tranquilizers if they did not know who their pack leader was. I carried in my suitcases and laptop, then gave the dogs a treat before shutting them off from the rest of the house. I told them I'd be back right after dinner, but I couldn't tell if they believed me.

They liked the biscuits.

Back at Mom's, after a much less harrowing ride, I met the Pomeranian. He was definitely the cutest, nastiest little beast I'd ever seen. He attacked on three legs, faster than you could jump out of his range.

Of course he did not attack my mother. I swear he smiled at her, while I rubbed my ankle, looking for blood.

“He doesn't have enough teeth to do much damage,” Mom said after she'd carried him back to his crate and told him to stay.

I thought he'd stay better with the crate door closed.

“No, he has to understand that I trust him. I know, I know. He's a hard case. But he's been battered. The x-rays show lots of broken bones, most of them mended by now. I cannot imagine the suffering, or the life he led before they threw him out of a car on Montauk Highway. He deserves a chance.”

Okay, I'd try to get along with the little red-haired terror. I was a sucker for a hard luck story, which my mother well knew. And he was adorable, for a spawn of the devil dog, like a stuffed animal a little girl would keep on her pillow. Until he bit her nose.

I handed Ippy a treat while Mom changed her clothes. I decided on Ippy because Nappy had too many connotations, and I could not bring myself to call the furball after the megalomaniac who tried to conquer all of Europe.

He took the dried liver bit from my hand very gently, put it down, and growled at me to step back so he could eat it without fear of my stealing his treat.

See? I was already beginning to understand dogs. The rest of the family was still a mystery.