by Garth Stein
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Mr. Lawrence said, standing before the jury box. “It is important to note that the case put forth by the prosecution is entirely circumstantial. There is no evidence whatsoever of violation. The truth of what really happened that night is known by two people alone. Two people, and a dog.”
“A dog?” the judge asked incredulously.
“Yes, Judge Van Tighem,” Mr. Lawrence said, stepping forth boldly. “The entire event was witnessed by the defendant’s dog. I call to the stand Enzo!”
“I object!” the prosecutor barked.
“Sustained,” the judge said. “For the time being.”
He produced a large volume from beneath his desk and paged through it at length, reading many passages.
“Does this dog speak?” the judge asked Mr. Lawrence, his head still buried in the book.
“With the help of a voice synthesizer,” Mr. Lawrence said, “yes, the dog speaks.”
“I object!” the prosecutor piped in.
“Not yet,” the judge said. “Tell me about this device, Mr. Lawrence.”
“We’ve borrowed a special voice synthesizer that was developed for Stephen Hawking,” Mr. Lawrence continued. “By reading the electrical pulses of the inner brain—”
“Enough! You had me at ‘Stephen Hawking’!”
“With this device, the dog can speak,” Mr. Lawrence said.
The judge clapped shut his massive tome.
“Objection overruled. Let’s have him, then, this dog! Let’s have him!”
The room was filled with hundreds of people, and I was sitting on the witness stand, strapped to Stephen Hawking’s voice simulator; the judge swore me in.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” I said in my scratchy, metallic voice, which was not at all as I had imagined. I had always hoped I would sound more commanding and present, like James Earl Jones.
“Mr. Lawrence,” the judge said, astonished. “Your witness.”
“Enzo,” Mr. Lawrence said, “you were present for the alleged molestation?”
“I was,” I said.
Suddenly there was silence in the gallery. Suddenly no one dared to speak, to titter, or even to breathe. I was talking, and they were listening.
“Tell us in your own words what you witnessed in Mr. Swift’s bedroom that night.”
“I will tell you,” I said. “But first, with permission, I would like to address the court.”
“You may,” the judge said.
“Inside each of us resides the truth,” I began, “the absolute truth. But sometimes the truth is hidden in a hall of mirrors. Sometimes we believe we are viewing the real thing, when in fact we are viewing a facsimile, a distortion. As I listen to this trial, I am reminded of the climactic scene of a James Bond film, The Man with the Golden Gun. James Bond escaped his hall of mirrors by breaking the glass, shattering the illusions, until only the true villain stood before him. We, too, must shatter the mirrors. We must look into ourselves and root out the distortions until that thing which we know in our hearts is perfect and true, stands before us. Only then will justice be served.”
I looked over the faces in the room and saw each of them considering my words, nodding appreciatively.
“Nothing happened between them,” I said, finally. “Nothing at all.”
“But we’ve heard so much of these accusations,” Mr. Lawrence said.
“Your Honor”—I raised my voice—“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I assure you that my master, Dennis Swift, in no way acted inappropriately around this young lady, Annika. It was clear to me that she loved him more than anything in the world, and she offered herself to him. He declined her offer. After driving us over a harrowing mountain pass, after exhausting himself, draining himself of all physical energy in order to deliver us safely home, Denny is guilty only of falling asleep. Annika, this girl, this woman, as unaware of the ramifications of her actions as she might have been, assaulted my Denny.”
A murmur rose from the gallery.
“Miss Annika, is this true?” the judge demanded.
“It is true,” Annika replied.
“Do you disavow these accusations?” Van Tighem asked.
“I do,” she cried. “I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve put you all through. I disavow!”
“This is a stunning revelation!” Van Tighem announced. “Enzo the dog has spoken! The truth is known. This case is dismissed. Mr. Swift is free to go, and he is awarded custody of his daughter.”
I leapt from the witness stand and embraced Denny and Zoë. At last, we were a family, together again.
“It’s over.”
My master’s voice.
I opened my eyes. Denny was flanked by Mike and Mr. Lawrence, who held a very large umbrella. How much time had passed, I didn’t know. But Tony and I were both very wet from the rain.
“That recess was the longest forty-five minutes of my life,” Denny said.
I waited for his answer.
“She recanted,” he said. “They dropped the charges.”
He fought it, I know, but it was hard for him to breathe.
“They dropped the charges, and I’m free.”
Denny might have been able to hold it off if we had been alone, but Mike wrapped him in a hug, and Denny unleashed the years of tears that had been dammed behind mud and determination and the ability to always find another finger to stick in the leaking dike. He cried so hard.
“Thank you, Mr. Lawrence,” Tony said, shaking Mr. Lawrence’s hand. “You did a fantastic job.”
Mr. Lawrence smiled, perhaps for the first time in his life. “They had no physical evidence,” he said. “All they had was Annika’s testimony. I could tell, on direct, she was wavering—there was something more she wanted to say—so I went after her on cross, and she broke down. She said that up until now she’d been telling people what she had hoped might have happened. Today, she admitted that nothing happened at all. Without her testimony, it would have been foolish for the prosecutor to move forward with the case.”
Is that what she testified? I wondered where she was, what she was thinking. I glanced around the plaza and spotted her leaving the courthouse with her family. She seemed somehow fragile.
She looked over and saw us. She was not a bad person, I knew then. One can never be angry at another driver for a track incident. One can only be upset at himself for being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She gave a quick wave meant for Denny, but I was the only one who saw because I was the only one looking. So I barked to let her know.
“You’ve got a good master, there,” Tony said to me, his attention still on our immediate circle.
He was right. I have the best master.
I watched Denny as he held on to Mike and swayed back and forth, feeling the relief, the release, knowing that another path might have been easier for him to travel, but that it couldn’t possibly have offered a more satisfying conclusion.
57
The very next day, Mr. Lawrence informed Denny that the Evil Twins had dropped their custody suit. Zoë was his. The Twins had requested forty-eight hours to assemble her belongings and spend a little more time with her before delivering her to Denny, but he was under no obligation to agree.
Denny could have been mean. He could have been spiteful. They took years of his life, they took all of his money, they robbed him of work, they tried to destroy him. But Denny is a gentleman. Denny has compassion for his fellow man. He granted them their request.
He was baking cookies last night in anticipation of Zoë’s return, making the batter from scratch like he used to do, when the phone rang. Since his hands were covered with sticky oatmeal goop, he tapped the speaker button on the kitchen phone.
“You’re on the air!” he said brightly. “Thanks for calling. What’s on your mind?”
There was a long pause filled with static.
“I’m calling for Dennis Swift.”
“This is Denny,” Denny called from his cookie bowl. “How can I help you?”
“This is Luca Pantoni, returning your call. From Maranello. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
Denny’s eyebrows shot up, he smiled at me.
“Luca! Grazie, for returning my call. I’m making cookies so I have you on the speakerphone. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No problem.”
“Luca, the reason I called…The issues that were keeping me in the States have been resolved.”
“I can tell by the tone of your voice they were resolved to your satisfaction,” Luca observed.
“Very much so,” Denny said. “Yes, indeed. I was wondering if the position you offered me earlier was still available?”
“Of course.”
“My daughter and I—and my dog, Enzo—would very much like to join you for dinner in Maranello, then.”
“Your dog is named Enzo? How propitious!”
“He is a race car driver at heart,” Denny said, and he smiled at me. I love Denny so much. I know everything about him, and yet he always surprises me. He called Luca!
“I look forward to meeting your daughter and to seeing Enzo again,” Luca said. “I will have my assistant make the arrangements. It will be necessary to retain your services under contract. I hope you understand. The nature of our business, as well as the expense of developing a test driver—”
“I understand,” Denny replied, plopping oatmeal and raisins onto the cookie sheet.
“You do not object to a three-year commitment?” Luca asked. “Your daughter will not mind living here? There is an American school, if she would prefer it to our Italian schools.”
“She told me she wants to try the Italian school,” Denny said. “We’ll have to see how it goes. Either way, she knows it will be a great adventure, and she’s very excited. She’s been studying a children’s book I gave her that teaches some simple Italian phrases. She says she feels confident ordering pizza in Maranello, and she loves pizza.”
“Bene! I love pizza, too! I like the way your daughter thinks, Denny. I am so pleased I can be a part of your fresh start.”
Denny plopped more cookies, almost as if he had forgotten about the telephone call.
“My assistant will be in touch with you, Denny. We will expect to see you in a few weeks.”
“Yes, Luca, thank you.” Plop, plop. “Luca.”
“Si?”
“Now will you tell me why?” Denny asked.
Another long pause.
“I would prefer to tell you—”
“Yes, I know, Luca. I know. But it would help me so much if you could see your way to telling me now. For my own peace of mind.”
“I understand your need,” Luca said. “I will tell you. Many years ago, when my wife passed away, I almost died from grief.”
“I’m sorry,” Denny said, no longer working the cookie batter, simply listening.
“Thank you,” Luca said. “It took me a long time to know how to respond to people offering their condolences. Such a simple thing, yet filled with much pain. I’m sure you understand.”
“I do,” Denny said.
“I would have died from grief, Denny, if I had not received help, if I had not found a mentor who offered me his hand. Do you understand? My predecessor at this company offered me a job driving cars for him. He saved my life, not merely for me, but for my children as well. This man passed away recently—he was very old—but still, sometimes I see his face, I hear his voice, and I remember him. What he offered me is not for me to keep, but for me to give to another. That is why I feel very fortunate that I am able to offer my hand to you.”
Denny stared at the phone as if he could see Luca in it.
“Thank you, Luca, for your hand, and for telling me why you have offered it.”
“My friend,” Luca said, “the pleasure is entirely mine. Welcome to Ferrari. I assure you, you will not want to leave.”
They said their good-byes, and Denny pressed the button with his pinkie. He crouched down and held out his sticky hands for me, and I obligingly licked them clean.
“Sometimes I believe,” he said to me as I indulged in the sweetness of his hands, of his fingers, of his opposable thumbs. “Sometimes I really do believe.”
58
The dawn breaks gently on the horizon and spills its light over the land. My life seems like it has been so long and so short at the same time. People speak of a will to live. They rarely speak of a will to die. Because people are afraid of death. Death is dark and unknown and frightening. But not for me. It is not the end.
I can hear Denny in the kitchen. I can smell what he’s doing; he’s cooking breakfast, something he used to do all the time when we were a family, when Eve was with us and Zoë. For a long time they have been gone, and Denny has eaten cereal.
With every bit of strength I have in my body, I wrench myself to a standing position. Though my hips are frozen and my legs burn with pain, I hobble to the door of the bedroom.
Growing old is a pathetic thing. It is full of limitations and reduction. It happens to us all, I know; but I think that it might not have to. I think it happens to those of us who request it. And in our current mind-set, our collective ennui, it is what we have chosen to do. But one day a mutant child will be born who refuses to age, who refuses to acknowledge the limitations of these bodies of ours, who lives in health until he is done with life, not until his body no longer supports him. He will live for hundreds of years, like Noah. Like Moses. This child’s genes will be passed to his offspring, and more like him will follow. And their genetic makeup will supplant the genes of those of us who need to grow old and decay before we die. I believe that one day it will come to pass; however, such a world is beyond my purview.
“Yo, Zo!” he calls to me when he sees me. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I reply. But, of course, he doesn’t hear me.
“I made you pancakes,” he says, cheerfully.
I force myself to wag my tail, and I really shouldn’t have, because the wagging jostles my bladder and I feel warm droplets of urine splash my feet.
“It’s okay, boy,” he says. “I’ve got it.”
He cleans up my mess and tears me a piece of pancake. I take it in my mouth, but I can’t chew it, I can’t taste it. It sits on my tongue limply until it finally falls out of my mouth and onto the floor. I think Denny notices, but he doesn’t say anything; he keeps flipping the pancakes, setting them on the rack to cool.
I don’t want Denny to worry about me. I don’t want to force him to take me on a one-way visit to the vet. He loves me so much. The worst thing I could possibly do to Denny is make him hurt me. The concept of euthanasia has some merit, yes, but it is too fraught with emotion. I much prefer the idea of assisted suicide, which was developed by the inspired physician Dr. Kevorkian. It’s a machine that allows an ailing elder to push a button and take responsibility for his own death. There is nothing passive about the suicide machine. A big red button. Press it or don’t. It is a button of absolution.
My will to die. Perhaps, when I am a man, I will invent a suicide machine for dogs.
When I return to this world, I will be a man. I will walk among you. I will lick my lips with my small, dexterous tongue. I will shake hands with other men, grasping firmly with my opposable thumbs. And I will teach people all that I know. And when I see a man or a woman or a child in trouble, I will extend my hand, both metaphorically and physically. I will offer my hand. To him. To her. To you. To the world. I will be a good citizen, a good partner in the endeavor of life that we all share.
I go to Denny, and I push my muzzle into his thigh.
“There’s my Enzo,” he says.
And he reaches down out of instinct; we’ve been together so long, he touches the crown of my head, and his fingers scratch at the crease of my ears. The touch of a man.
My legs buckle and I fall.
“Zo?”
He is alarmed. He crouches over me.
“Are you okay?”
I am fine. I am wonderful. I am. I am.
“Zo?”
He turns off the fire under the frying pan. He places his hand over my heart. The beating that he feels, if he feels anything at all, is not strong.
In the past few days, everything has changed. He is going to be reunited with Zoë. I would like to see that moment. They are going to Italy together. To Maranello. They will live in an apartment in the small town, and they will drive a Fiat. Denny will be a wonderful driver for Ferrari. I can see him, already an expert on the track because he is so quick, so smart. They will see his talent and they will pluck him from the ranks of test drivers and give him a tryout for the Formula One team. Scuderia Ferrari. They will choose him to replace the irreplaceable Schumi.
“Try me,” he will say, and they will try him.
They will see his talent and make him a driver, and soon, he will be a Formula One champion just like Ayrton Senna. Like Juan Manuel Fangio. Jim Clark. Like Jackie Stewart, Nelson Piquet, Alain Prost, Niki Lauda, Nigel Mansell. Like Michael Schumacher. My Denny!
I would like to see that. All of it, beginning this afternoon when Zoë arrives and is once again together with her father. But I don’t believe I will get the chance to see that moment. And, anyway, it is not for me to decide. My soul has learned what it came to learn, and all the other things are just things. We can’t have everything we want. Sometimes, we simply have to believe.
“You’re okay,” he says. He cradles my head in his lap. I see him.
I know this much about racing in the rain. I know it is about balance. It is about anticipation and patience. I know all of the driving skills that are necessary for one to be successful in the rain. But racing in the rain is also about the mind! It is about owning one’s own body. About believing that one’s car is merely an extension of one’s body. About believing that the track is an extension of the car, and the rain is an extension of the track, and the sky is an extension of the rain. It is about believing that you are not you; you are everything. And everything is you.