“Actually, that’s precisely what they all say.”
Sam found Greg and Luke and gave them instructions for the day that they didn’t really need. She started for the front door and Nick followed.
“Sorry,” she told her dog. “Not this time.”
Nick whined and Sam almost changed her mind about bringing him, for the sake of her own distraction and comfort. She concluded it would be unfair to put Nick through six hours of driving in one day. “You’ll have more fun here. I promise.” She kissed Nick on his forehead and stepped out of the shelter onto the sidewalk.
In ten minutes a Ford sedan with city government plates pulled up next to her and Sam jumped in. Tom Walden had changed into a fresh shirt and suit, but that was the only thing about him that seemed fresh. He had the look of an all-nighter about him and the tight line of his mouth told Sam it had not been for fun.
“Are you OK to drive?” Sam asked.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
Tom drove slowly through the narrow cross streets of the Upper West Side as Sam silently looked out the window at an endless repeating pattern of Starbucks, Dunkin’ Donuts, dry cleaners (“Tailor on Premises”), and small restaurants (“Happy Hour 5–7”). They passed several ambulances in active transport, with bubble lights and sirens on full. Sam wondered whether each contained a small child struggling for breath.
“So how’d you find him?” Tom finally asked.
“I called the dean of the vet school.”
“Really? So did I.”
“The dean isn’t your godfather.”
“Good point. Thanks for doing this.”
“Just to be clear, I didn’t do it for you. Whatever your real motives, maybe there is a chance to help these kids.”
“But—”
“And you’re giving me an extra thirty days, plus you will make sure that any of my dogs who are not placed at that time get transferred to Bill Ackerman’s shelter.”
“I can’t make any promises beyond giving you the thirty days.”
“You can, and you will, or this will be a short trip.”
Tom’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and his knuckles turned white. “OK. You have my word.”
Sam took out her iPhone and held it in front of his face. “Now say it for the lawyers.”
Tom took his eyes off the road long enough to glare at her. “Really? You’re gonna tape me?”
“No offense, but I’m not really a trusting person.”
“Fine. I, Tom Walden, assistant deputy mayor for the City of New York, do promise that if Dr. Samantha Lewis helps to secure the assistance of her father in this matter, she will receive an additional thirty days to vacate the premises currently occupied by her shelter and at the conclusion of that time, any dogs not placed will be turned over to the care of Bill Ackerman.” Tom glared at her. “Satisfied?”
Sam turned the phone off and shoved it into her pocket. “Not nearly, but I guess it’s the best I can do.”
“Now that we’re all official, should we at least try to call first to make sure he’s there?”
“All Jonathon had is the address where they send the pension checks. They’re still being cashed, so we can assume Dr. Daniel Lewis is alive. Jonathon and my father were no longer on speaking terms, so that’s all we have.”
“OK. I got it.”
“I doubt it. You will never understand how many lives my father actually mangled.”
“If he’s anything like you, I think I’m starting to.”
“You bought my cooperation, Walden, not the right to talk shit to me. So keep it to yourself.” Sam turned on the radio and pushed the volume to loud. She closed her eyes and pretended to fall asleep. She pretended so hard that sleep slowly overtook her.
Before Sam gave in to the exhaustion, she had one last thought: Panic 2; Numbness 1.
2
Andy was correct; Gabriel did not keep a television in the church, but he did use a computer. The priest sat before it now in his cramped office, searching through the “urgent adoption” Web pages of the city’s dog shelters. On these pages Gabriel found the shelter dogs coming up on their compassion expiration dates. Without rescue, these dogs would face the city’s euthanasia needle within seventy-two hours.
Gabriel studied hundreds of dog faces. Many were older, had been abandoned, or had been brought to a shelter because they had health problems that, although not terminal, were inconvenient or expensive to ameliorate. He saw the words incontinent, cataracts, diabetes, flatulence, and difficulty with stairs under many of the photos. The words were always easier to focus on than the faces. These were dogs who had once known the sweetness of homes and families—they had slept in warm beds next to the small feet of sleeping children, had eaten leisurely out of their very own food bowls, had gone through whole days without experiencing an odor that was unfamiliar, painful, or threatening—only to learn that their final house would be a small metal cage lost in a dark cloud of sharp noises and acrid, alien odors. The faces showed that these dogs had learned the truth about humanity. Ears back in submission, eyes downcast. They had given up.
But there were other, younger dogs who had not yet succumbed to the hopelessness of their situation. In their eyes Gabriel thought he saw confusion, doubt, and pain, but also a small remnant of forgiveness and, perhaps, hope. The demeanor of these faces most closely approximated what Gabriel observed on the face of the figure in the church sanctuary, the one on the suspended wooden cross. He scanned through several photos and found one face that gave him particular pause. Gabriel checked the anticipated euthanasia date—today—and grabbed his phone.
The animal shelter at Ninety-Second Street and First Avenue was the largest in the city. When animal control officers picked up strays or abused and abandoned dogs within the city, they typically ended up here. Notwithstanding the hundreds of dogs and cats housed within, the facility was clean, well-organized, and staffed by ultimately caring souls doing the best they could under the enormous physical and emotional weight of their task.
Gabriel presented himself to the young woman at the reception desk. He didn’t identify himself as “Father,” but his ever-present collar meant he didn’t need to. The unfamiliar receptionist asked for his driver’s license “for security” with an embarrassed smile.
“Of course,” Gabriel responded.
In a few moments, a male Hispanic technician with the name Steve on his coveralls appeared, shook Gabriel’s hand, and escorted him through a set of double doors that led to a large holding area lined with dog-filled cages. The area was twice as large as Sam’s entire shelter, and every cage—over two hundred by Gabriel’s guesstimate—was occupied. The dogs noticed the priest’s entrance and clamored for his consideration.
“He’s in cage 36-A,” Steve said.
Gabriel focused his attention on the dog from the Web page and avoided looking into any of the other cages; it was the only way he could possibly accomplish his task. The desperate whining tugged at his conscience, but he knew that eye contact suggested the possibility of comfort and he had none to offer today except to the dog in cage 36-A.
Gabriel peered into the cage. A midsize but wiry black mutt—pit bull, black Lab, and maybe Rottweiler—stared back at him silently.
“You sure about this one, Father?” Steve asked.
“Yes.”
Steve shrugged and opened the cage door. 36-A retreated to a corner of his enclosure and curled into a shaking ball. Gabriel produced a dog biscuit from his pocket and offered it to the dog, but 36-A only tried to get smaller.
“He bite anyone?” Gabriel asked.
“No way. The most he does is pee on himself when you get too close.”
Gabriel slowly moved the biscuit forward into the cage. “You want this?” he asked gently. “Nothing to be afraid of here. Just a cookie.” Gabriel inched his arm farther in and heard the hiss of urination. The pee passed through the grate and dappled the newspaper below.
“Maybe it wo
uld just be better—” Steve began.
“I’m not in any rush and you don’t need to wait. Just leave me the leash.”
Steve handed Gabriel a cheap plastic leash and left the room.
It took Gabriel five biscuits and forty-five minutes of coaxing, pleading, and cajoling, but it was worth it. 36-A emerged from his cage and allowed the priest to attach a leash to his collar. Gabriel led the dog through the double doors of the cage room. 36-A didn’t look back. The remaining dogs made a final fevered plea for Gabriel, but the noise was cut short as the doors swung closed. Gabriel prayed for those left behind and for himself as well—that his condition would soon remove the memory of that sound of despair now echoing in his mind.
At the reception desk, the young woman gave Gabriel a form to sign and knelt before the dog to say goodbye. 36-A tried to hide behind Gabriel’s legs, entangling the priest. Gabriel patiently freed his legs while offering soothing sounds as he signed the form. Then he led 36-A outside into the comparatively fresh air of a bright New York City morning.
Their first stop was the kosher-style deli on Lexington and Ninety-Fifth. Gabriel passed through the doorway and was hit with a wall of odors that transported him to the New York of his youth and his first congregation on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Corned beef, pastrami, salami, smoked fish, fresh bread. The priest had never lost his taste for the food. He would drag Channa out for the flavors once or twice a month and gladly pay the gastrointestinal debt that came due hours later.
The impact of the deli aromas on 36-A was likewise immediate. The dog whimpered, but his thin tail moved in an increasingly excited arc and he began to pant.
Gabriel waited his turn at the counter. It was still too early for the huge crowds that would begin to form an hour before lunchtime. One of the old countermen, in a food-stained apron, motioned for Gabriel to step away. “No dogs in the store,” he warned.
An even older counterman whom Gabriel had never seen before jumped in. “I got this one, Max. It’s OK.” Max shrugged and took the next customer.
“How can I help you today, Father?” the second man asked.
Gabriel gave his order and the man had it packaged and ready in a few minutes. He handed the bag to Gabriel.
“What do I owe you?” Gabriel asked.
The man looked from Gabriel to 36-A, and then back to Gabriel. Gabriel felt a sudden chill under his knowing gaze. The man shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Please,” Gabriel said. “Let me pay for it.”
“Even a prost ben-odem can recognize the malakim when he sees one. It is the least I can do.” The man walked away without waiting for further discussion. Confused, Gabriel took his package and his dog and headed toward the park.
3
Not a growl. Not a whimper. Not a whine.
An endless row of terrified caged dogs, fresh sutures across their throats, raised their heads as one. They opened their mouths to howl in protest against their circumstance, but they made no sound.
“Dr. Lewis?” The voice touched her through the heavy blanket of sleep and denial. “Samantha?” The same voice, a little louder this time. Maybe a bit irritated, but Sam didn’t care about that. What she cared about was that the voice wouldn’t go away and she didn’t want to be conscious. Consciousness meant knowledge—cold, painful, obdurate knowledge—and facing the fact that her past and present failures were merging into a single shit show. But it was no use. She was waking now and sliding slowly from the cages of her dreams into the thick walls that molded her life.
She opened her eyes just as their car passed the Latham, New York, town limits sign. “Damn. I’d hoped it was all a bad dream,” she said.
“Then next time, can you dream someplace a little closer to the city?”
Sam glanced over and saw the exhaustion in Tom’s face. She almost felt a little guilty about sleeping the whole ride, but then reminded herself that this was the jerk shutting her down. She noticed the beat-up Timex on Tom’s right wrist—4:05. That couldn’t be right. “What time is it?”
Tom looked down at his left wrist, where he wore one of those multifunction runner’s watches. “Almost eleven.”
“Your other watch is wrong,” Sam said.
“That’s the time in Tokyo.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Right, it’s not. Do you know what you’re going to say to your father?”
She knew precisely what she was going to say. Nothing. “I can get you through the door, but then it’s up to you.”
“He’s your father. I’m sure he’s going to want to hear from you.”
“He was my father. Just like I was the operator of a no-kill animal shelter in Manhattan. It is a curious historical fact, nothing more at this point. Trust me on this, Walden. If you want his help, you should nod politely to me once in a while, but don’t invite me to open my mouth.”
“OK. I guess you know how to handle him best, but can you do me one small favor? Can you stop calling me Walden?”
“What should I call you?”
“How about Tom?”
Sam nodded. “No.”
Tom sighed and reached across Sam into the glove compartment.
“Going for your gun?” Sam asked.
Tom ignored her and grabbed a bottle of Advil. He popped the lid with his teeth, fished out three tablets, and tossed them in his mouth. Sam took the bottle and returned it to the glove compartment. “Thanks,” he said.
She dropped the bottle on top of a photo of an adorable seven-year-old boy. She thought the kid looked like the guy behind the wheel, with a chunk of someone very pretty thrown in. Walden wasn’t wearing a ring, but Sam knew that didn’t mean much these days.
After a few more minutes of silence, the lady from Tom’s nav system instructed him to make a few lefts and then a right. Sam anxiously watched the number of “miles to destination” dwindle and the “ETA” get closer until Tom pulled the car into a hidden driveway and up to a modest house. The nav lady announced, “You have arrived!” in the voice of a proud parent.
Although the front door was open, that was the only evidence of life on the property. Tom hopped out, but Sam was slow to join. The stillness of the bucolic setting was so disorienting compared to the vibrancy of the city and the shelter that she coughed just to make some noise. Together they walked up three cracked slate steps to the front doorway.
Tom rapped on the open door.
“Yes?” a voice called from inside the house.
Sam gasped. Some part of her had really believed he wouldn’t be here, or that he would be dead, or that a comet would hit Walden’s car before they pulled up the driveway.
“Dr. Lewis?” Tom called into the hallway.
“Hold on a moment,” the voice called back.
When Sam heard the footsteps, she spun toward the car, calculating if she still had time to make a dash for it. Tom must have sensed what she was thinking, because he reached for her arm—not as a sign of affection or support, but to keep her in place. Sam managed to free her bicep from Tom’s grip, but by then it was too late for escape. Besides, she remembered that Tom held the car keys.
A face appeared at the door.
Sam took a step backward, this time not to run, but out of shock. She had thrown her father out of her life while he was still in the beginning stages of grief and denial. Since that time, Daniel Lewis’s demons had feasted well on whatever makes one human. Sharp edges and cold gray hollows had replaced any flesh that had once been soft and warm. His gray hair had turned a sickly translucent white. Always slight but fit, Daniel was now specter-thin and frail, as if the slightest breeze might take him and spin him into cold, dry dust.
Sam nearly fell off the top step, but Tom steadied her and his touch brought her back. “Dad, this is Mr. Walden…” Sam fought hard to keep her voice from breaking.
“Sam?” was all Daniel Lewis could manage before his dry lips began to quiver. “Are you all right? Why are you…?”
“Mr. Wal
den has something… there is something… he needs you to…” Sam couldn’t finish. Her body began to shake.
Tom stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Dr. Lewis, I’m Tom Walden, assistant deputy mayor for New York City. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about your work.”
Daniel shook Tom’s hand in a trance, all the while staring at Sam. “I’d forgotten how much you look like her. For a moment I thought…” He snapped back into focus. “Please, come inside.”
Sam hesitated.
“Sam, please,” her father urged. “You came all this way. One cup of coffee together won’t deprive you of your right to hate me. I promise.”
That was true, Sam knew. But she worried about how long she’d be able to look into that ghostly face and not feel even an ounce of compassion. She squeezed her eyes shut and allowed Tom to bring her into the house.
Daniel Lewis offered Sam and Tom a seat on a small couch in what passed for a living room, and excused himself.
Once they were alone, Tom asked, “Are you OK?”
“Really?” Sam snarled. “You’re gonna ask that? I should’ve demanded more to suffer through this.”
“Well, we’re here now…”
“Yeah, no shit. By the way, my feelings toward you are not really improving.”
Daniel returned with three mugs of coffee, a glass of milk, and a box of sugar on a plate. If he was going for pathetic, Sam thought he had succeeded. He handed out the mugs and then took a seat across from her.
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said. “I appreciate you meeting with me. I would have called but we can’t seem to find a working phone number…”
Sam tried to ignore this intolerable chatter and surveyed the room. Her father’s house looked as if he’d furnished it straight out of a cheap rental catalog. No item revealed any history of the occupant. Sam wondered what he had done with all the once-beloved odds and ends from the house of her childhood—the ceramic candy dish she’d made in sixth grade, the painting of wolves howling at the desert moon they’d bought on a vacation in Arizona, the Lalique cat Sam had given her parents on their twenty-fifth anniversary, all her school awards, her mother’s…
Just Life Page 10