Dog Eat Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  “I’ve never paid too much attention to Joanne,” she said. “She’s basically a pet owner, using the club as a social life. She does a good job with the club’s rescue work, but beyond that I’ve never really given her any thought. She’s just part of the background.”

  From what little I’d seen of Joanne, I had to agree with Aunt Peg’s assessment. And that made me wonder about the conversation she’d supposedly had with Barbara. Somehow I couldn’t imagine the two of them exchanging confidences.

  I thought of the carefully orchestrated way in which I’d been drawn aside and fed just enough information about Joanne to make me curious. Had Barbara really been trying to point me in the right direction, or had she simple wanted to divert attention away from herself and Cy?

  Nineteen

  After the week I’d had, I was really looking forward to a calm, relaxing weekend. Davey, Sam, and I could use some quality time together. I pictured us strolling with the puppy in the park; or maybe seeing an afternoon movie. And after Davey went to sleep ... I had that covered, too.

  I’m no Cinderella. I have modest dreams. I figure that way they stand a halfway decent chance of coming true. That Saturday, however, my fairy godmother must have been out to lunch. And maybe dinner, too.

  Instead of the quietly blissful weekend I’d planned, I ended up with a phone message from Sam saying he’d gone off to show in Massachusetts; six inches of snow from a last-gasp-of-winter snowstorm; and an ex-husband who seemed to have forgotten that I was no longer responsible for doing his laundry.

  Times like this, I wish life was better at imitating art. Even a wicked stepmother wouldn’t have treated me this badly.

  Davey, who by all rights, should have slept late Saturday morning, was up at dawn celebrating the newly fallen snow at the top of his lungs. After he’d let Faith outside and the puppy had taken two quick turns around the back yard, she joined in. For some reason, the two of them seemed to think this celebration should be taking place on my bed. That’s how I discovered just how much powdery snow can stick to a Standard Poodle puppy’s legs. Enough to wet a queen size quilt clear through, apparently.

  While Davey dressed, I stripped the bed, threw everything in the washing machine, and started a batch of French toast. Bob arrived while we were eating breakfast.

  “Great,” he said, going directly to the cupboard for a plate. “French toast, my favorite.”

  There were two pieces cooking in the pan. My two pieces. I slapped a cover over them before he could help himself. “I don’t recall issuing an invitation,” I said.

  Bob stopped and stared. Then he began to laugh. After a minute, I joined in. It’s hard to stand on ceremony when you’re wearing flannel pajamas.

  We split the pieces in the frying pan between us and I started three more. Sitting at the table, Bob cocked his head toward the basement door. “Do I hear the washing machine?”

  “Could be. It’s running.”

  “You don’t suppose ... ?”

  “You could run a load? I don’t see why not.”

  “I only have a few things. I was thinking I could throw them in with yours.”

  “Sorry,” I said, grinning. “Mine’s done.”

  Four and a half years and he still hadn’t mastered laundry. He’d just met Jennifer. I wondered who’d been taking up the slack in the meantime.

  “Come on, Mel. Don’t be like that.”

  I took a big bite of French toast and chewed slowly. “Like what?”

  “Obstinate. You always did have to have everything your own way.”

  “I did not.” That was unfair. Also untrue.

  Davey stopped eating and looked at us. The French toast on the stove began to smoke. I hopped up, grabbed a spatula, and turned the pieces over.

  I was not going to fight with Bob in front of my son. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll do your laundry.”

  “And?”

  “You shovel the driveway.” Of all the chores that came with owning a house, shoveling snow was the one I liked the least. I could mow, I could plant, I could even paint and plaster if I had to, but I hated shoveling snow.

  “You’re kidding.” From the look on his face, you’d have thought I’d suggested he climb Mount McKinley and get back to me by noon.

  “Why would I be kidding?”

  “Why would I want to shovel snow?”

  “Nobody wants to shovel snow. That’s the whole point.” The new batch of French toast was done. I slipped a hot piece on each plate, then dipped and started three more.

  “It’s March,” said Bob. “The stuff will be melting in a week or two anyway.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll have to live with it.”

  “I don’t have any gloves, or the right kind of boots.”

  I shrugged and sat back down to breakfast. Faith pushed her muzzle hopefully into my lap. I scratched behind her ear, but didn’t offer to give up any French toast. “That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

  He took it.

  After breakfast, Bob went back to the hotel and picked up his laundry. While I was sorting lights and darks, he and Davey went out in the backyard where they managed to build a snowman that was all of two feet high and bore a striking resemblance to E.T.

  As they worked, Faith ran around in circles, barking like a lunatic. Every so often she’d stop and tentatively sniff the snowman. Dogs are creatures of habit. If something’s going to change in their space, they’d like to be consulted. Faith was not amused by this small intruder in her yard. Even fashioning features out of dog biscuits didn’t help, although I thought they added to the snow creature’s otherworldly appeal.

  By lunch time, I had my driveway shoveled and Bob had a basket filled with fresh laundry. Supplies being a bit low, we opted for peanut butter and jelly all around, then sat down to a family game of Scrabble. With Davey sitting between us, Bob and I were on our best behavior. Neither one said a thing when our son passed off the word “zfig” as a new kind of Newton.

  It wasn’t exactly the family grouping I had in mind but, all in all, things didn’t turn out too badly. We did manage to get to the park; with Bob insisting we take his car until he found out that Faith was coming along, then arguing with equal vehemence that we take mine.

  The Volvo stuttered all the way there, but only part of the way back. I saw that as a good sign. Where my car is concerned, I’m an optimist. I can’t afford to be anything else.

  Back home in the late afternoon, Bob was ready to sit down in front of the TV with a cold beer and a plate of nachos. Wives have to put up with stuff like that. Exes definitely don’t. I thought about kicking him out, but decided it might be more productive to let him hang around.

  Davey had gotten up early and had a busy day. By four-thirty, he was just tired enough to be really cranky. Any mother with young children knows that stage. They’re bored with their games. All their toys are stupid. There’s nothing good to do in the whole world.

  Davey wanted to cling. He also wanted to whine. I handed him another cold beer for Daddy and sent him into the living room in the sincere hope that he’d continue to do both.

  Sneaky? Self-serving? Maybe. But Bob had told me that he wanted to experience fatherhood. The way I saw it, all I was doing was helping him experience it to the fullest.

  Left to my own devices in the kitchen, I unfolded Faith’s portable grooming table and got out her supplies. Accustomed to the routine, she lay quietly while I line brushed the hair on her body, then slickered through her legs. I took out her topknot and reset all the bands, then unwrapped and rewrapped her ears. Faith doesn’t much like having her nails clipped, but by now she’s resigned to it. The same goes for plucking the hair inside her ears.

  With a Standard Poodle, this is a long process. Doing a good job takes more than an hour. I did a great job. Probably the most thorough brushing I’ve ever done. Aunt Peg would have been proud. And when I was finished, the puppy looked great. Faith took the piece of cheese I gave her as a reward,
then ran into the living room to see what Davey was up to.

  When everything was put away, I followed. Father and son were seated together on the couch. Bob had one eye on a boxing match and the other on the Go Fish cards in his hand. Davey still looked sulky.

  “I said go fish!” he shouted, slapping the pile of cards on the cushion between them. “That means you’re supposed to go fish!”

  No need to intervene there.

  Quietly I withdrew, and spent the next half hour browsing through take-out menus before settling on ribs. Usually that’s one of Davey’s favorite meals. They come with curly fries and nobody says a word when you eat with your fingers. At five, that’s enough to bump a meal straight to the top of the list.

  Compared to some kids I’ve seen, Davey’s usually pretty easy. But that night, nothing pleased him. The ribs didn’t taste right. The fries were too salty. Even Faith’s begging at the table—which he usually encourages shamelessly—got on his nerves.

  After dinner, I sent him upstairs for an early bath. Bob got the job of reading him to sleep and didn’t reappear for an hour.

  Ah, the joys of fatherhood.

  By that time, I had my feet up and was reading Nancy Pickard’s latest. Bob came and stood in the doorway. “That dog ... um, Faith, is on the bed with him. Is that okay?”

  “Sure. That’s where she sleeps.”

  “She won’t wake him up?”

  “She hasn’t yet.”

  “Good.” Relief evident, Bob came in and sat down on the couch.

  “Nice day,” I commented, setting my book aside.

  “Long day.”

  I kept my smile to myself. “That’s what it’s like when they’re Davey’s age. They go and go and you can barely keep up, then suddenly boom, they’re tired and it all shuts down.”

  “Do you know he made me play eighteen games of Go Fish?”

  “Better than hide-and-seek. That’s another favorite. At least you were sitting down.”

  “Great,” Bob muttered. “When do they begin to amuse themselves?”

  “When they get older, I guess.”

  “Jeez, eighteen games. And I only won one.”

  “Be glad you weren’t playing for money.”

  Bob looked up. “He does that?”

  “No. Just kidding.”

  “I should hope so.”

  His tone irritated me. If he’d wanted to have input into the way his son was raised, then he should have been around to provide it.

  “I guess fatherhood isn’t that easy, is it?”

  “I never said it was.” Bob frowned. “But it doesn’t change the fact that Davey’s my son.”

  “Of course he’s your son. He loves spending time with you. And I’m delighted to have him spend time with you, whenever you want to come and see him. But we can’t share him, Bob. Texas is just too far away. And who knows anything about this girl, Jennifer—”

  “I do,” Bob said. There was an edge to his tone. “I know plenty about her. She’s going to make a great mother.”

  “How can you say that? How can you know? She’s barely past childhood herself.”

  “She may be young, but she’s a good person. She comes from a good family. You have no right to judge her, especially when. . .”

  Bob stopped suddenly and looked away. An alarm went off deep in my subconscious. Bob and I were old hands at fighting. But we’d always done it face to face. It wasn’t like him to turn away.

  “When what?” I demanded.

  “It’s not like your own family is perfect, Mel.”

  A cool shiver raised the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been to see Frank.”

  That was news to me. I waited in silence for what would come next.

  “You didn’t know that, did you?”

  “My brother and I don’t talk every day,” I said quietly.

  “From what I can tell, you hardly talk at all. But he talked to me. Actually we had an interesting chat about old times. I didn’t know your father was an alcoholic.”

  When I’d been married to Bob, I hadn’t known it either. My parents had made a conscious effort to shelter me from anything unpleasant, anything that might hurt. And their efforts had worked, up to a point. How could they have known that finding out everything later, after their deaths, when it was too late for me to do anything but mourn all over again, would only hurt more?

  “I remember when your parents died,” he said.

  Of course, he’d remember. I was pregnant with Davey, and we’d gone to the funeral together.

  “Your father was driving when their car went off the road. Maybe he’d been drinking then.”

  Bob was guessing. I knew the truth. But the scab over that particular wound was still too fresh. I wasn’t about to discuss it with him.

  I glared at him. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “It has everything to do with it. What makes you think you have any right to question my suitability as a parent? Or Jennifer’s either, for that matter?” Bob stood, waving an arm angrily to encompass the room. “From what I can see around here, you’re not necessarily doing such a great job yourself.”

  “I’m a terrific mother—”

  “You drive a car that sounds like a death trap, feed my son french fries for dinner, and let a dog the size of Rhode Island sleep on his bed. He keeps mentioning some guy named Sam, and now I find out about your father. Talk about instability. This is one hell of a way for my kid to be growing up.”

  I wanted to fight back. I wanted to scream so loud the windows rattled. But much as I hated to hear it, there were elements of truth to what he’d said.

  I’d tried my damnedest for Davey, but there were times when I felt that I had to be everywhere at once. No matter how carefully I tried to set my priorities, sometimes Davey’s needs got lost in the shuffle. All working moms had moments of doubt, I knew that. But it didn’t make them any easier to overcome.

  When I looked up, I was almost surprised to see Bob still standing there. “I think you’d better go.”

  “You think about what I said.” He walked over to the closet, yanked on his coat, then let himself out the front door.

  Upstairs, Faith woofed quietly when she heard the door open. My son slept in his bedroom, blissfully unaware of the turmoil that swirled around him. Downstairs, I curled myself up into a tiny ball, pulled my knees up under my chin, and wondered if Bob was right.

  Twenty

  I spent a restless night in bed and got up early, eager to do anything that would take my mind off Bob and what he’d said. Alice Brickman called after breakfast and invited Davey over to play with Joey. And like Sam, Aunt Peg was away showing in Massachusetts. That left me and Faith.

  I thought about washing the kitchen floor. I thought about bathing Faith. Both would make me feel virtuous, but both were essentially mindless physical activity which would leave me plenty of time to think. Right now, that was the last thing I needed.

  Instead, I got on the phone and called Joanne Pinkus. She was home, and seemed more delighted than I would have been by the prospect of a visit from someone she barely knew. Maybe she was hoping I wanted to talk insurance.

  Joanne lived in Norwalk in a small frame house that had the look and feel of the fifties. It was set on almost an acre of land, however, with mature trees and plantings that afforded plenty of privacy. A post and rail fence lined with wire mesh, circled the property.

  As I drove up, two black and tan Norwich Terriers, presumably Rupert and Camille, raced along the fence barking a welcome. Faith pressed her nose against the window and stared. She’s been to handling class and shows, so she’s seen lots of other dogs; but for some reason, the little ones always seem to surprise her. I cracked the windows and left her lying on the seat with a new rawhide bone nestled between her front paws.

  I’d barely rung the bell before the door was flung open. “This is great!” said Joanne. “I’m
glad you’re here. Come on in.”

  The yard had been muddy and I would have wiped my feet, but Joanne grabbed my arm and was already pulling me inside. Her mass of hair was casually messy; her plump body shoe-horned into leggings and a long pullover sweater.

  I wondered if she owned a full-length mirror. If so, I wondered if she ever used it. In their brown stretch casings, her legs looked like two sausages ready to burst at the seams. The bulky sweater she’d topped them with had settled into a broad crease over her hips.

  “Coffee?” she offered.

  I fell in behind her as we headed toward the kitchen. “I’d love some.”

  Joanne filled two ceramic mugs from a pot on the counter. There was a pitcher of milk and a bowl filled with little pink packets of Sweet’n Low on the table. As I helped myself, Joanne opened the back door and the two Norwiches came scrambling inside.

  Racing side by side, they were going so fast that they were halfway across the kitchen before they saw me. Both skidded to a stop, stiff-legged, and began to bark. I leaned down and held out a hand.

  “That’s Rupert,” Joanne said as the first one came and sniffed my fingers. “He loves everybody. Camille will take a little longer.”

  Approximately thirty seconds, by my count. By the time we’d carried our coffee into the living room and were settled on the couch, Camille was already trying to nudge her way onto my lap. On the other side, Rupert lay down on the cushion and stretched out along my leg.

  “Dogs are a great barometer,” said Joanne, looking on approvingly. “They always know whether visitors really like them or are just full of bullshit.”

  I smiled at her vehemence. “Do you get many visitors who are full of bull?”

  “Probably most of them, I’d say. Are you married?”

  “Not now. I used to be.”

  “Dating?”

  “Only when I have to.”

  “Then you know what I mean. Luckily, I’ve got a good job that keeps me busy and I’m really involved with the work I do for the club. Otherwise, I’d probably have stooped to taking out an ad in the personals by now. This being single in the nineties jazz is a real drag.”