One Good Dog

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One Good Dog Page 16

by Susan Wilson


  Once in a while I came out from under the table to sit with him while he played with his toys. He’d even become somewhat generous with his own food, a bite of meat here, a lick of the plate there. Just enough to keep me off balance in my estimation of him.

  He spoke one of those words to me now. Chance. Then Quiet. Two words that had been repeated enough I knew that the first identified me to him, or maybe the second one. They were often linked together: Chancequiet. I could feel a little tremor in the leash, telegraphing itself down to me. A firmer vibration of concern, of quickening steps.

  I didn’t want to stop long enough to get reacquainted, so I started to pull on the leash. He didn’t pull me back, tighten that collar around my neck with a jerk like he did when I spoke to others on the street. Looked like my man didn’t want to stop, either. We both knew that no good could come of it. The scent of the boys, the sound of their feet on the pavement made me nervous. I didn’t want to fight their battles anymore.

  Then he stopped in his tracks. The boys were in front of us now, their voices and their postures speaking challenge.

  Was this guy going to fight me, when he’d done such a poor job of conditioning me? Or hand me over to these boys and let them put me back in the cellar? I’d be hardly better than a bait dog, which made me think of all the bait dogs I’d trained with—okay, savaged. These boys wouldn’t be pleased with me when they found out it would only be self-defense in the pit for me, not physical superiority. They’d tape my jaws shut and let the others have me for lunch.

  I realized then that I had fallen into the trap of household pets. I was comfortable, and these old caretakers represented a return to a very uncomfortable life. I pressed myself against his legs, imploring—I’m not proud of it—imploring him to keep the leash in his hand. Don’t give me back. Maybe I don’t want to be a pet, but I sure didn’t want to go back to that cellar. I still planned on making a strike for independence, but not till it suited me. Not yet. Not to my old life, but to the life of a free dog.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Hey, man. Where you get that dog?” Two young men come out of a doorway. They are dressed in loose clothing, dwarfed by their massive black sweatshirts, which bear a famous footwear logo. Their hats, also black, are cocked at a jaunty angle, hoods pulled up over those against the chill air. On their feet are dazzlingly white athletic shoes. One boy is wearing sunglasses that give him an Adam Ant look. The other has a chain draped from his belt to his back pocket. It clinks a little as he saunters in Adam’s direction, the volume of his pants forcing him to swagger to keep them from falling down.

  “Breeder.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Look like my dog. My dog was stolen. You know anything about that?”

  “No.” Adam wonders what the fuck he’s doing in this end of town. He’s been walking the dog for an hour, mindful of the training book’s admonition to keep dogs exercised. He’s actually been enjoying the enforced activity, and with his thoughts keeping time to their walking pace, he’s ended up six blocks past the demilitarized zone of the center. He’s forgotten to turn around. Adam believes that he is not a prejudiced man, but this is beyond his comfort zone. A white man walking a pit bull sticks out in this neighborhood.

  “You maybe lookin’ for something?” This is spoken sotto voce by the young man not wearing the blocky sunglasses. His face, framed in the giant hood, is tilted. His eyes are almost friendly. “For some action?”

  “No. Just taking my dog for a walk.”

  “Could maybe get you into somethin’ if you want.”

  “I don’t want anything.” Adam is flanked. The dog is standing with his head lowered, his yellow-brown eyes raised, his hackles raised. His tail stands straight out like the magnetic needle on a compass; his feet are planted on the soiled sidewalk. He makes an intermittent vocalization that might be a growl, or a protest. A chuffing sound of anxiety.

  “Hey, fella, how you doin’?” The kid with the sunglasses reaches down toward the dog, fingers snapping. The dog growls, shrinks behind Adam’s legs.

  “He look like a fighter to me. You sure you doan want a little action?”

  “He’s a pet.”

  “Doan look like no pet. Got that scar there.”

  “He’s a pet.” Adam squeezes out from between the tall youths. They step closer to the dog.

  The dog lowers his head, his eyes on their faces; the soft skin around his muzzle quivers and then curls, exposing his teeth. Both boys back up.

  Terrified suddenly that his dog will actually bite, Adam turns on his heel, yanks the dog around to follow.

  “Sure look like my dog. Dawg.” The boys laugh and enter the convenience store.

  “Who were you defending back there?” Adam has covered six blocks in six minutes. A Starbucks is on this block, one with outdoor seating even in the winter. They’ll stop there, catch their breath, and calm down with a splurge. Double mocha latte in the largest investment-quality size available. “Me or you? Did you know those kids?”

  The dog shakes himself and settles down on the sidewalk. Inscrutable.

  It is conceivable that they were telling the truth. Gina has said this dog looks like he’d been fought, but then why did he act nervous in front of them if he knew them? The reason suddenly seems obvious. “Did they hurt you?” Adam kneels down on one knee, draws the dog’s face to his own. “Did they make you fight?” The sound of laughter as two people walk out of Starbucks brings Adam back to his feet, embarrassed to be seen talking to a dog. Inside, he buys a biscotti, which he will share with Chance.

  As they sit there, Adam’s pulse slowly returning to normal, the sweet latte improving his mood, a woman passes by on the street. She looks at Chance. The look on her face is one of nerves, as if the dog might leap out at her. Fear blunts her middle-aged face, fear of a breed’s reputation, and her path swings wide of where they sit.

  Adam recognizes an expression he has seen before, one that once gave him a secret satisfaction. There is a twinge of the pain in his ribs; he takes in a sharp breath. Was he really so bad, so intimidating? Had he mistaken fear for respect? He had often boasted that he didn’t need his people to like him, only to do what he required. When he required it. There wasn’t one employee, not peer, but underling, who called him anything but Mr. March. There wasn’t one worker who shared baby pictures with him even if he walked by as the new dad was showing them to coworkers. There wasn’t one person whose job was owed to Adam’s proficiency at his own job who sent him a Christmas card.

  The end of the biscotti disappears into the maw of the dog, who crunches it with loud abandon. Adam is chilled, sitting on the metal chair as the temperature falls. He has no doubt that the look on his own face when confronted by those gangstas had shown the same wash of fear, fear of those who have control of the moment, of those who will decide the next action.

  The phantom pain twinges again and he takes another shallow breath. The dog looks up at him, his yellow-brown eyes hopeful of another chunk of biscotti, the encounter on the sidewalk forgotten. “Time to go home.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Rafe is singing along to Tracy Chapman on his iPod, his voice seriously under pitch. “Talkin’ about a revolution, yah yah yah.” Today he’s concocted a meat loaf with brown gravy, his signature garlic mashed potatoes, and a salad tossed in a bowl the size of a try-pot on a whaling ship. This has become one of Adam’s favorite meals, which surprises him, as meat loaf, like liver, was a dish forbidden in the March home. Too many meals in his youth featured meat loaf, extended with fillers of bread or cereal, doctored with ketchup. But Rafe’s version of the dish could be served in any of the upscale restaurants Adam once patronized, and he tells Rafe this.

  “You say so, man? Go on. This recipe belonged to my granny, who got it from hers and so on, back to when our people brought it over on the slave ship.”

  “Rafe, your hyperbole is matched only by your skill with a spatula.” Adam unties the long whit
e apron from around his waist, tosses it into the laundry bin.

  The center’s chef plugs his ear bud back into his ear, but he is smiling.

  Adam is in a good mood. Two things have cheered him up immensely. The first, a client—his first step toward breaking out from under the crushing debt he has incurred since losing his job and his assets. The second, the fact that Ariel actually initiated a telephone call to him. She wants to come spend the weekend with him, unprompted. This is a first, and Adam is fighting a rising suspicion that it isn’t about spending time with him, but about annoying her mother. Lately, Sterling has complained that Ariel is acting out. Her usual friends are absent and the new kids she hangs out with Sterling has deemed quite unsuitable. Adam has defended Ariel, chalking it up to adolescent rebellion, but Sterling, in a rare moment of unguardedness with him, wouldn’t shrug it off, fretting that there’s something going on, something beyond normal growing pains. Sterling tells Adam that Ariel wants to give up riding all of a sudden. Her grades are falling; she didn’t try out for the lacrosse team. And yesterday, she came back from town with a stud through her nose.

  Adam thinks about Ariel’s form of defiance and Veronica’s sixties version. Nose rings versus miniskirts. Normal adolescent disrespect versus complete disappearance.

  With everything in the center’s kitchen all shipshape, Adam shrugs into his coat, pockets the package of meat loaf Rafe is sending home to Chance, and bids his coworkers to have a good weekend. He’s in a hurry; the rest of his day will be spent honing the client’s business plan. A start-up company, three baby-faced entrepreneurs who have managed to raise a million dollars from friends and family to start a business designing skateboard parks. They hope to be the Rees Jones of skateboarders, and Adam plans to leave the suit coat and tie at home when he makes this presentation Monday afternoon. Then he has to plan some meals for Ariel’s visit. This time, he will resist the temptation to take her to a place he can’t afford; he’ll cook instead. He’s learning a lot from Rafe, although proportions have been a little challenging and he’s overdosed more than once on a lasagna that lasted for a week. And Chance needs his daily constitutional.

  It’s been awhile since Adam watched Judge Judy.

  At half-past five, the park is beginning to empty out, and Adam finds this is the best time to take his dog out for some exercise. They run around the man-made lake at the center, then cool out walking along the path that loops gently through the gardens. It is still too early for flowers, but there is a certain tinge of pinky green, a hint of reanimation in the bare branches above their heads. The brindled dog lopes along beside Adam, his lolling tongue giving him a cheerful look. As they slow to a walk, Adam plays out more of the leash and lets Chance do his doggy thing along the freshly edged, if empty, gardens.

  As Adam and Chance come up over a short rise, Gina appears with her three greyhounds. They both stop at a distance, uncertain about the dogs, about Chance.

  “Let me get them leashed.” Gina calls her dogs, who all look like antlerless deer to Adam. He glances down at Chance and is relieved to see the dog’s tail wagging ever so slightly. Is he happy to see Gina, or is he okay with the three tall dogs? Very slowly, everyone comes together on the narrow path. Noses are working, tails begin to wag, no hostility. The greyhounds move like dignitaries, circling Chance, winding their leashes into a braid, until Gina has to spin to free herself from the maypole dance of the four dogs, a graceful movement, accompanied by her laughter.

  Chance tolerates the inquisition. No lurching. No growling. No lifted lips. “Good boy, Chance.” Adam thumps him on the ribs. The tail continues to wag.

  “He’s coming along, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah. He’s definitely getting better about other dogs.”

  A awkward moment passes between them. What they have is a lack of definition. They have exchanged harsh words, and shared a cup of tea. She’s observed him; he’s watched her. But what did that make them: the kind of acquaintances who turn around on a walk to join each other, or the ones who keep going? Passing acquaintances? If circumstances were different, if she hadn’t been on the egg-throwing side of a long-ago controversy, would she like him? Adam is flummoxed by the thoughts darting around his head as he looks for something neutral to say.

  “Well, nice to see you.” Gina gathers the three leashes into her left hand. She looks like a chariot driver, the tall, pale dogs fanned in front of her. “Bye, bye, Chance.”

  “I’m heading out. Is it okay if I walk with you?” Adam twitches the leash and Chance moves closer to his side. “It’s good for him to be around other dogs.”

  Gina nods. “Sure.” Not hostile, not warm. If he was to attribute any adjective to her response, it might be cautious. He is disheartened. By this time, she shouldn’t be so grudging with her friendship—willing to give him a good reference for Dr. Gil, unwilling to forget about his connection to Dynamic Industries.

  They walk in the direction of the entrance to the park with its wrought-iron gates. The silence is not exactly comfortable; neither is it intolerable. They both keep their attention on the dogs. Keep the dogs between them. But it is the lingering memory of her touch on his arm that emboldens him to keep pace with her, not to say “Nice to see you, too” and speed on his way.

  Gina is first to break the silence. “Who did you finally decide on as a trainer?”

  “No one. The truth is, I can’t afford a trainer. At least not at the moment.” Adam considers that Gina might think it strange that a man like himself can’t afford something like dog training, and he almost adds that his daughter’s horse trainer is enough trainer for him. But he doesn’t. He waits to hear what Gina might say.

  “There are training tapes. You can get them out of the library.” If she is curious, Gina doesn’t betray it.

  “Good idea. Although he’s got ‘Sit’ pretty well learned. And ‘Come.’ We’re definitely doing better on ‘Come.’ ‘Stay off the futon’ is not so good.”

  “But not attacking other dogs is. I see some improvement there.”

  “Sort of. Today is a good day.”

  “Lucky for my guys.”

  “Lucky for me.”

  They have reached the gates. Gina stops at a Prius parked nearby. “Why don’t you come by and pick out a dog bed for him? That may help with the futon issues.”

  “I will.”

  “I have some that aren’t very expensive.”

  “I’m sure I can swing a dog bed.”

  Gina unlocks her car door and the three greyhounds jump in, only to collapse around one another on the backseat. She doesn’t offer Adam a lift. Nonetheless, Adam smiles as he picks up the pace for home.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  If Ariel is disappointed that they are not going out for one of their fancy meals, she has the good grace to hide it. In fact, she’s quite agreeable, and there is no sign of her iPod or her cell phone. Adam feels like he should be either suspicious or ecstatic. Maybe she’s just growing up, he thinks. Maybe the anger is starting to wear off. She is sixteen, tall and willowy. Her physical resemblance to Veronica is heightened by the way she’s wearing her hair, not pulled back into a messy knot, nor in those slightly suggestive little-girl ponytails sported by some of the girls he sees walking to school in his neighborhood. Today her blond hair is loose; ripples of natural wave keep it from being plain. A thick cream-colored scarf is around her neck, and she wears a black lambskin jacket over her designer jeans. He can see the tiny faceted stone in the side of her nose, twinkling in the sunlight like a ruby red mole. It’s not as bad as he imagined. Surely the hole will close up once she outgrows this need to mutilate herself in the name of fashion. In the meantime, he’s learning how to look at her face without looking at the stud. The effect of all of this is that she doesn’t look sixteen. She looks older, and he knows that is precisely what she hopes.

  Sterling wants him to talk to Ariel about her friends, behavior, attitude, and blowing off schoolwork and reminded him of that when he
picked Ariel up. Adam decides to be the good cop. Why spoil this “so far, so good” afternoon? Maybe when he takes her back to Sylvan Fields tomorrow, he’ll say something. But for now, he’ll enjoy this air of cooperation, this rare unsullied proximity.

  As they pull into the parking lot behind his building, Adam pats Ariel’s knee. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

  Instantly, Ariel’s demeanor tenses. “Who?” She unbuckles her seat belt but doesn’t open the door.

  “Not going to tell you; it’s a surprise.” He’s a little surprised at her reaction. Adam hasn’t told Ariel that he ended up keeping the dog he said was temporary. “You’ll like him.”

  Ariel visibly relaxes, smiles, and twirls a lock of hair behind her ear. Three studs frame the delicate edging of pink ear that he once marveled over while watching her sleep. “Okay. Him. All right.” She elides those two words into one odd sound. A’ite.

  Clearly, Ariel isn’t up to accepting another woman in her father’s life. He smiles, then thinks of Gina. If he was ready to date, would she be a likely candidate? He’s bought a nice dog bed from her, and she was pleasant enough as he got Chance to try the fit on several of them. They both knew that he could find an equally nice bed at the local pet supply warehouse for a lot less, but he handed over his abused Visa and smiled even as he chided himself for caring if she liked him or not. But there is something about her that lingers like an afterimage every time he encounters her.

  Adam and Ariel climb the back stairs to his floor. He tries not to see the place as she must. Despite a perfectly serviceable hallway, no terrible food odors from neighbors, even a few door decorations cheering it up, it still has that worn industrial look about it. Gray carpet, beige walls. Uninspired sconces light the hallway, dim even in broad daylight. The only apartment building she has ever spent time in is on Park Avenue in New York. There is no hallway in that building; the elevator opens into the foyer of her grandparents’ floor. They own the entire floor.

 

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