Hush Puppy

by Laurien Berenson

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Sheila?”

  “She wasn’t important.” Sam shrugged. “It always seemed like we had better things to talk about.”

  “She was important enough for you to have married her,” I pointed out.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  Spraying conditioner into Tar’s topknot, Sam angled his body away so I couldn’t see his expression. Was it my imagination or did his tone sound wistful? “Tell me about her,” I said.

  Any woman in the world would have known better than to head into those treacherous waters. Not Sam; he plunged right in.

  “Sheila was a firecracker,” he said. “ She had mercurial ups and mercurial downs. When she liked something, she was passionately devoted to it. When something didn’t please her, she wanted no part of it. I was twenty-three when we met, and I’d never known anyone like her.”

  I’m human, okay? I was waiting to hear something uncomplimentary. Hearing Sam call his ex-wife a passionate firecracker wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind. My eyes narrowed. Come to think of it, he’d never complimented me on my passion.

  “How did the two of you meet?”

  “In business school. Second year. She was majoring in marketing, and it wasn’t hard to figure out why. She could sell dog collars at a cat convention.”

  I nodded in what I hoped was an encouraging way. I wished he’d hurry up and get to the part about the disagreements, the acrimony, the divorce.

  “So we got married,” said Sam. “Big wedding, huge cathedral, white dress, the whole works.”

  I waited—it wasn’t like I wasn’t busy—a full five minutes for him to continue. Surely that couldn’t be where he intended to end the story.

  “That’s it?” I asked finally.

  “Pretty much.” Sam nodded. Tar had less hair than Faith, and he was almost finished.

  What about lawyers, and papers, and divvying up assets? I wondered. What about sleepless nights and assigning the blame? Obviously Sam had a talent for glossing over major details.

  “You did get divorced, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. It happened six years ago. Like I said, it’s all in the past. None of it has any relevance to my life now.”

  Right. Sheila had had enough relevance to make him drop what he was doing—which, as I recalled, was talking to me—and run across the room to see her. And the story he’d told about their life together had holes big enough to drive a truck through.

  “Look what we got!” Davey came skipping down the aisle. He was holding up a sugar-coated doughnut.

  “What about lunch?” I asked. Noon had come and gone while we’d been in the Poodle ring.

  “This is my lunch,” Davey informed me. “I’ve had two already. Aunt Peg said I could.”

  I gazed at Peg, who smiled benignly. “I guess you haven’t read any of those studies about the effects of good nutrition on growing children.”

  “Pish,” she said. “He’ll grow. I’ve always had a taste for sweets and look at me.” Nearing six feet tall and built along the sleek lines of a Borzoi, Peg was a glowing advertisement for good health. Something only an idiot would have attributed to her diet. “Did you and Sam manage to get things sorted out?”

  “No,” I said firmly, just as Sam answered, “Yes.”

  “Pity about that major,” Aunt Peg mentioned, just to throw some gas on the fire.

  “There’ll be others.” Sam seemed remarkably composed about the loss. Peevishly, I wondered if that was because his mind was on other things.

  “We met Mrs. Vaughn,” said Davey. “She’s nice.”

  I dropped my comb. It landed on the floor with a clatter. “You did? When?”

  “Just now. Aunt Peg and I went over to say hello.”

  “Welcome to the East Coast,” said Aunt Peg. “That sort of thing.”

  I bent down to pick up my comb. Knowing Peg, a what-are-you-doing-here sort of inquisition seemed more likely.

  “I think that should be Ms. Vaughn,” I corrected Davey. “Unless she’s gotten married again?”

  “Nope,” Davey said cheerfully. “Aunt Peg asked.”

  She would, I thought. For once, my aunt’s curiosity seemed like an endearing trait. I waited avidly for my son to continue.

  “She told me to call her Mrs. Vaughn. She said she liked being a missus.” Davey studied all sides of his doughnut before finding one he liked and taking a big bite. Blithely he talked and chewed at the same time. “Mrs. Vaughn said we’ll probably see her at some of the other shows around here because she’s working in New York until summer.”

  “Really?” I pushed the words out with effort. “How nice.”

  “She has Pugs. Their faces are all wrinkly, and sometimes they snort. She let me pet one. Her name was Tulip.”

  It was a good thing Davey was in a talkative mood because all the adults in our little group seemed to have been struck dumb.

  Sam was busy with Tar. Having finished working on his hair, he stood the big puppy up, let him shake, then put him in his crate. Aunt Peg was munching on a brownie. No one else but me seemed unduly concerned about this sudden turn my life had taken.

  “I guess you’ve known about this for a while,” I said to Sam.

  “What?” he asked over his shoulder as he tossed equipment in his tackbox.

  So help me, I wanted to smack him. Could he possibly have any doubt what we were talking about?

  “Sheila. Her job in New York. You know . . .” I finished vaguely. It seemed like a better idea than outlining the specifics, like the fact that Miss Fourth of July was about to be living in our backyard.

  “No, I had no idea until I saw her here this morning. Sheila and I haven’t kept in touch.” He said this last part slowly, as if I were a small child, and he wanted to make sure I understood.

  My hands moved methodically as I continued to work on Faith’s coat by rote. All at once, I found myself wondering if Sheila had divorced him for patronizing her.

  “Where will she be staying?” asked Aunt Peg.

  “She’s leased a house in North Salem,” said Sam. “As I’m sure you can understand, she needed space for her dogs. She’s just settling in, and there are some minor repairs she’s been struggling with. I told her I’d stop by this afternoon after the show and have a look.”

  “This afternoon?” my voice squeaked. Faith, who’d been lying quietly on the grooming table, lifted her head and looked at me. It’s a pity when your dog is better at sensing your feelings than your fiancé.

  “Sure. That’s okay, isn’t it? I didn’t think we had anything planned.”

  He was right, we didn’t. But by now our lives were so intertwined that we didn’t usually bother to make plans. Since both of us were busy during the week, we’d fallen into the routine of spending most of our weekends together. Even though Sam and I hadn’t spoken about it, I’d just assumed that he’d be coming home with us after the show.

  “You’re right,” I said brightly. My smile felt as phony as a nine inch topknot on a six-month-old puppy. “We didn’t have any plans.”

  “Good.” Sam nodded. “This shouldn’t take long. Sheila mentioned something about a piece offence that’s sagging and a faucet that drips all night. How about if I call you when I’m done?”

  “Good idea,” I said, as he loaded his crate, table, and tack box onto a dolly and prepared to leave. “You do that.”

  Aunt Peg, the buttinsky who’d brought us together in the first place, was surveying the situation with a worried frown. If Sam had had any sense, he’d have been worried, too. But obviously he was too intent on his upcoming rendezvous with Sheila to hear the chill in my tone.

  “See you later, sport.” Sam gave Davey a hug. “You take good care of your mom, okay?”

  “Okay,” Davey echoed. “See you later.”

  Ah, the innocence of youth.

  “Sagging fence, my fanny,” I said when Sam was gone. “The woman owns Pugs. Pugs! Have you ever seen a Pug jump?�
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  “Actually I have—” Peg began. One look at my face was enough to silence her.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do,” said Peg. “But I think you’re overreacting. So Sam spends an afternoon with his ex-wife, so what? As I recall, you spent several weeks with your ex-husband last spring.”

  “That was different. For starters, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. Bob came to see Davey, remember?”

  “And Sheila came to the Northeast for a job. The move is only a temporary one, and it has nothing to do with the fact that Sam is here.”

  “Maybe not,” I grumbled. “But did he have to look so happy to see her? He called her mercurial and passionate. He said she could sell dog collars at a cat convention.”

  “Why would one want to—? Never mind.” Aunt Peg choked off that thought. “What do you suppose caused them to divorce?”

  “Sam didn’t say. He seemed to think it wasn’t relevant.”

  “He’s a man,” said Peg, as if that it explained everything. Actually, it pretty much did.

  While we’d been talking, I’d been breaking down Faith’s tight, show ring topknot and replacing it with the looser banding she would wear at home. Now I finished fixing the last of the protective wraps around her ear hair. We were ready to pack up and go.

  “Maybe Sam will explain everything when he calls you,” said Peg.

  “Like how a woman who was never even important enough to mention is suddenly worth devoting his free time to?”

  “Something like that.” Peg sighed.

  Perhaps Sam might have been able to come up with a good reason for the way he was acting, but as it happened, he never got the chance. Davey and I found so many things to do over the next two days that we were never home to answer the phone if indeed it had rung. When we got back from the show, we went out to the mall, then followed that excursion with dinner and a movie.

  Sunday we devoted to yard work. March is the perfect time to pick up the mess that winter has left behind, and we were outside nearly all day. Once Davey thought he heard the phone ringing; but by the time he and Faith made it up the steps and into the house, the caller had given up. I guess it was just Sam’s bad luck that I’d taken the tape out of the answering machine and forgotten to replace it.

  All in all we were so busy that neither Davey nor I had any time to spend wondering what Sam might have been up to on that pretty spring weekend.

  Yeah, right.

  By Monday morning, I’d spent two hectic days and two semisleepless nights, and my butt was dragging. It seems to be a fact of life that when I get to school on time nobody notices; and when I come barreling in the back door a few minutes late, inevitably I get caught. Luckily when you’re a teacher, you’re too old to get detention. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any easier to meet up with the headmaster.

  Shedding my coat as I dashed down the hallway, I whipped around a corner and ran smack into Russell Hanover II. “Ah, Ms. Travis,” he said, reaching out a hand to steady me. “The very person I was looking for. In a hurry, are we?”

  “Just a bit,” I said, reaching up a hand to run my fingers through my hair.

  In truth I didn’t look disheveled, it’s just that Russell always makes me feel that way. Both his tailoring and his deportment are impeccable. I’ve never seen a wrinkle in his clothing, and though he’s in his late forties, his face is still remarkably smooth. That’s probably due to the usual lack of expression on his bland features. Russell’s hair is medium brown and thinning along his temples. He wears it short and combed straight back, and the severe cut suits him well.

  “I’m told you’ve signed on as a member of our Spring Pageant Committee,” he said.

  Actually I hadn’t actually signed on, I’d been conscripted. Though I suspected Russell himself had monitored the selections, I nodded as though the whole thing had been my idea.

  “Excellent. Mr. Durant tells me the committee is having a bit of a problem coming up with a suitable program. Since your schedule tends to have more flexibility than some of the others, I thought you might have the time to take a look through some of our archives in the basement.”

  “I’d be happy to,” I said. This was the first I’d heard of such a collection.

  “It seems Honoria Howard was a bit of a pack rat.” Russell frowned slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe he’d described one of the school’s illustrious founders in such unflattering terms. “There are several dozen boxes stored in a rather shabby little room downstairs. I’ve never had occasion to sort through them myself, but I understand they contain all manner of records: correspondence, invoices, and perhaps even some photographs that pertain to the academy’s early years. I was hoping you might come across something that would hasten the committee on its way.”

  Hasten? I thought. Was that what he’d said? I knew the word existed, but I’d never actually heard it used in conversation before. Just for kicks, I tried it out myself.

  “I’d be delighted to hasten things along any way I can.”

  “Good.” Russell reached in his pocket and produced a key. “There are a number of entrances to the lower level. You’ll find the most convenient one in the front hall, tucked in the back beneath the stairs. The storeroom you’re looking for is beneath the southwest corner of the building.

  “I’m told there’s a table in the room, and there should be ample lighting for your purposes. Of course, you may feel free to bring anything upstairs that you wish to examine further. Krebbs informs me that the door is customarily kept locked, so I’ve had an extra key made. You may return it to me at your leisure when the project is finished.”

  I pocketed the key and turned to leave. Russell, however, remained where he was. “Is there something else?” I asked.

  The headmaster’s frown had returned. “First bell rings for assembly at precisely eight-forty-five. Not unreasonably, we expect our teachers to be in their classrooms, with their coats off and their day planned by then.”

  “Yes sir,” I said without a trace of sarcasm. First bell had been ringing as I’d come through the back door. Now I could hear the sound of the students beginning to fill the upper hallway. Assembly had just let out. I tucked my coat behind my back. “That’s not a problem.”

  “Quite right,” Russell agreed mildly. He turned and walked away down the hall.

  This is my first year teaching at Howard Academy and, so far, it’s been an interesting experience. The students are different than those I’d encountered in the public-school system, and their problems sometimes make me feel as though I’ve stepped into the setting of a Jane Austen novel. Asked to have a substandard test signed by a parent and returned the next day, I was given a choice between accepting the nanny’s signature or receiving a fax from the parents who were vacationing in Bruges. What the hell, I thought, and opted for the fax. It was probably as close as I was going to get to Belgium anytime soon.

  I’m a tutor, not a classroom teacher, so by the time a student gets shifted into my special help program a problem has already been identified. Usually it’s something simple and a bit of extra attention is all it takes to get things back on track. Because the needs of the children change constantly, so does my schedule, and I enjoy the freedom that gives me.

  Russell had been entirely correct. I often have periods during the school day when nothing is scheduled. That morning I had one at ten-thirty. Curious now about what I might find, I used it to head down to the basement.

  The main building at Howard Academy is a turn-of-the-century stone mansion, built in opulent times by a man to whom money was no object. Over the years, the salons and drawing rooms have been converted to more functional classrooms, but much of the charm of the mansion remains. This is especially true in the front entrance hall with its burnished hardwood floor, dramatic split staircase, and hand-rubbed antique furniture.

  My first sight of the entrance hall had left me gasping in pleasure. Now I scarcely noticed it as I hurried
through, intent on my quest. Twin portraits of Joshua and Honoria Howard hung side by side above a mahogany console holding a vase filled with fresh, fragrant flowers. Their eyes seemed to be on me as I found the door just where Russell had said it would be in the darkened recess beneath the stairs.

  I half expected the door to creak open, revealing rickety stairs and dim lighting, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Like everything else at Howard Academy, the basement was in excellent shape. There was a switch plate next to the door, and when I flipped on the lights, I could easily see my way down the solid wooden stairway.

  The lower level was huge, mirroring the house above it; and only part of it had been finished. Though several rooms had been partitioned off along one wall, it was clear that the basement’s major function over the years had been as a depository for excess supplies and equipment. I walked past wooden packing crates, stacks of old textbooks, and several rusty appliances on my way to the other side. Nearly everything was overlaid with a thick coating of dust.

  The door to the first room stood partly open, and I glanced inside as I went by. Judging by the racks that lined the back wall, it had, once upon a time, served as a wine cellar. Now nothing remained of that bygone era but a torn label on the floor and a musty aroma. I was about to move on when a fleeting flash of color caught my eye.

  I stepped back and heard the quiet shuffle of footsteps from within. At least I hoped it was footsteps. If not, Eugene Krebbs was going to have to deal with some rather large rats.

  “Who’s there?” I demanded.

  Five

  “Who wants to know?” a voice came back, equally sharp.

  I smiled in relief. “Jane, is that you?”

  “No.” Now she sounded sullen.

  I stepped into the doorway and turned on the light. Jane was standing in the corner of the small room, looking much as she had the last time I’d seen her. In fact she didn’t look as though she’d changed her clothes since. Aware of my scrutiny, she jutted out her chin and stared at me defiantly.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.